In Dreams
by The Girl in the Red Jacket
Summary: Faramir, son of the Steward, lays near death, taken by fever. He is aged five years. Yet hope remains while the child still breaths.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I own very little and certainly nothing you recognize here. Tolkien is God. 'Nuff said.  
  
Author's Note: I have rarely ventured out of my normal fandom writing wise, though I do read several, but my muse, damn beast that he is, decided that my beta saying she would never like Denethor was a challenge. Hence, I felt compelled to work on this rather than the other stories I have in the work that are in need of an update rather badly.   
  
The story will be non-slash and involve, for the most part, Faramir, Boromir, Denethor and Aragorn. There will, however, be appearances by Imrahil, Elrond, Legolas, Finduilas, Arwen, the hobbits, Gollum and everyone's favourite twins. It is not an AU, I'm merely taking a few...er...liberaties. I have read the books, seen the movies, and own the extended additons on dvd so there will be a mix of movie verse and book verse.   
  
Criticism is always welcome but please, no Denethor bashing simply for the sake of Denethor bashing. While I have no real love for the character my lump of a muse does and I'm trying to make him human in this fic. Also, elements of Aragorn's relationship with Elrond, but not all of it, is drawn from the ideas put forth in the Mellon Chronical's by Cassia and Sio, which if you haven't read, you should.  
  
As always, thank you to Mandi for being such a wonderful beta and encouraging this even though Shared Hearts and Coming Back to Earth are still waiting to be written! Also, sorry for the long note, it won't happen again and if it does, it won't be placed before the chapter!  
  
In Dreams...   
  
Imrahil rode hard into the white stone city. He had not thought he would be within these wretched walls for some years to come but an urgent missive from the Steward had called him back mere months after he had seen his sister put to rest.   
  
The letter was not quite coherent, indeed, even the writing was illegible in some places. The gist of it, Imrahil had deduced, was that Faramir was very ill and that Denethor requested Imrahil's presence. For what, exactly, Imrahil was not sure, but he was not about to abandon his sister's youngest when he was in need of aid.  
  
Or, Imrahil would admit grudgingly, deny Denethor if the man asked to help. He was not overly fond of the serious Steward, but his sister had loved him, and had made Imrahil promise to her on her deathbed that he would aid Denethor should he ask for it, for when the mule headed man asked he was desperate.   
  
"UNCLE!" The shout made Imrahil's head whip around, for he recognized his nephew's voice. He had just ridden into the stables and spotted the blond haired boy flying towards him.  
  
"Boromir!" Imrahil called, catching the boy in his arms and hugging him close. Something, Imrahil realized, was definitely wrong, for Boromir had reached the age where such open displays of affection were greeted by the words, "I'm too big for that!"  
  
Now, though, the boy seemed to burrow into his hug, making Imrahil prolong the contact until his nephew was ready to pull away. When he did, Imrahil was shocked to see Boromir's green eyes wet with tears, one escaping to trail down his cheek.  
  
"Where is your father, Boromir?" Imrahil asked gently, needing to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible.  
  
"In the Healing Halls, with Faramir," Boromir answered, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. "They have not let me see him for two days, uncle! They have always let me see him before! They will not tell me what is wrong..."  
  
"Shh, lad, there must be a reason for it, perhaps he is contagious and they simply do not want you sick as well," Imrahil offered, though he knew it was little comfort.   
  
Boromir just shrugged and clutched Imrahil's hand tightly, "I will show you the way..."  
  
Imrahil knew well where the Healing Halls were but allowed the lad whatever comfort it gave him. If he had not known Boromir would have protested vocally he would have hefted the boy into his arms and held him tight but Boromir...Boromir was not so old as to need a child's comfort but he was too old to want it.  
  
The Halls of Healing were near frantic with activity and Imrahil picked up on the slight relief of tension that swept through the place when they saw he had arrived. Someone, he supposed he should learn the healer's names at some point, pointed him in the right direction, "The Steward is in there, my Lord."  
  
"Thank you," Imrahil replied, only to be stopped short by the tightening of Boromir's hand in his.   
  
"Lord Boromir," the healer began uneasily, "your brother is sleeping, right now, and we mustn't disturb him for he needs his rest."  
  
"May I see him later?" Boromir asked, his face taken on a rather stubborn look. "Tonight?"  
  
"Perhaps," the healer said uneasily, "we will have to wait and see what your father says, and how your brother is feeling."  
  
Boromir scowled, clearly understanding that that answer was a wishy-washy no, but a no nonetheless. Imrahil crouched to the boy's height. "I will come see you when I have seen your father, Boromir, do not worry."  
  
"Yes, uncle," Boromir sighed.  
  
Imrahil ruffled the unhappy boy's hair before following the healer through a set of doors into a large chamber further back in Halls. The healer did not follow him through the last set of doors, but Imrahil would soon see at least two healers were in the room, fussing with some tonic.  
  
Denethor himself was seated in a rocking chair that looked like it had been brought in especially for his use. He wore none of the dark, heavy robes he normally preferred, only clad in a simply pair of trousers and a light tunic. In his arms he cradled his youngest son.  
  
Imrahil was shocked at his nephew's appearance. The boy had always been whip thin but now... his little body was so diminished, bones visibly protruding. His skin was very pale, his hair limp and lifeless and Imrahil could see a deep flush of fever on a barely visible cheek. One hand was curled weakly in Denethor's tunic, soft whimpering noises coming from the boy even though Imrahil took him to be asleep.  
  
"We shall have to conduct our interview thusly, brother-in-law, for the rocking seems to soothe Faramir and I cannot leave him," Denethor said quietly, unwilling to disturb what little peace his son found in sleep.  
  
Imrahil watched as Denethor brushed back the curls to bathe Faramir's flushed face with a cold cloth before finding his voice, "Aye, my Lord, I would not have you do so."  
  
"It is for that reason I sent for you," Denethor continued. "He continues to worsen and when he is aware he is in pain, and I fear it is so even when he sleeps under the healer's tonics. I... They say he may die, Imrahil, if the fever does not break soon, and they have had no luck in doing so."  
  
"Denethor..." Imrahil began, surprised and seeing they were beyond formalities at this point.  
  
"Please, Imrahil, I know we have never been friends but... I need someone I trust who can watch over Gondor with me until Faramir is well again," Denethor said, unwilling to think of other possibilities at that moment. "I have to stay with my son. I cannot leave him..."  
  
Imrahil knew Denethor was a man of great pride, so he did not comment on the fact he clearly saw tears in the hard grey eyes when the Steward glanced up at him for a moment. "You need only to ask and you have my service, Denethor, I would not abandon you during this."  
  
Denethor nodded his thanks, "I have tried to manage both these last few days, for Faramir has been in great need, but the paper work involved in running this realm..."  
  
"I can imagine," Imrahil muttered dryly, he had all but taken over the duties of his father, the Prince of Dol Amroth, not because his sire could not himself but because he wanted his son to have a firm handle on the tasks when he passed.  
  
"I admit to having fallen behind. The letter I sent you was scribbled hastily after it became apparent Faramir had taken a turn for the worse. I do apologize if it was not entirely legible," Denethor said. "And... Boromir is most distressed because I have not allowed him to see his brother these past few days."  
  
"As he told me, when he greeted me upon his arrival," Imrahil said, looking sadly at Faramir, who stirred fitfully in his father's arms. "I cannot say I disagree with your decision."  
  
"If it comes to it..." Denethor swallowed. "If it comes to it I will give him time to say goodbye but I would not have him see his dear brother thusly. It will only serve to upset him."   
  
"Indeed," Imrahil said, seeing the healers were nearly done with whatever brew they were concocting. "How did this come to be, Denethor? How did he take this ill?"   
  
Denethor sighed, "I fear it began the day we laid Finduilas to rest. He took a chill, and fool that I am, I did not notice until he was already taken by how cold he was!"  
  
Imrahil winced, that day was all to clear in his memory. His attention had been more on the service than on his nephews and their father, he had to admit, but he did recall Denethor reaching down and taking Faramir into his arms, at one point, covering the small body with his warm fur cloak. He had thought the child was simply bereft with grief but now he did recall how cold it was that day.   
  
"A chill taken months ago could not have caused this," Imrahil said quietly.   
  
"No, for it did not end there. His lungs were congested and he took fever soon after. He was very ill for a time and weak when the illness finally left him. Alas, would I wish that that had been the end," Denethor's face was pale now and Imrahil felt a small touch of sympathy for the man. "A childhood disease stole round the city, as it is wont to do from time to time. It is not normally a serious thing, Boromir had it when he was younger and suffered little for it but my poor Faramir, weak as he was still from his illness..."   
  
Imrahil nodded grimly, "And this fever?"   
  
"He has been feverish from time to time for months now, but this one has taken hold and will not be broken though the healers ply him with remedies. I fear for Faramir, Imrahil, he is so weak now..." Denethor's voice broke and Imrahil found himself reaching out to touch his shoulder.   
  
"There remains hope for as long as he yet breathes," Imrahil said gently. "I will take care of your city, for I do know how from governing my own realm, so you may devote yourself to him."   
  
"Thank you," Denethor whispered, his eyes closing as if in pain.   
  
Faramir mewled pitifully, turning Denethor's attention back to him. The boy's thin face was creased in pain and shivers raced through the thin frame. Denethor shushed him gently, wiping the cloth over his face and neck.   
  
One of the healers brought the brew over. It was the colour of unripe corn and Imrahil caught only a faint scent of it from where he sat. It could not, he thought with a grimace, taste good.   
  
"Faramir...Wake up, little one," Denethor murmured, drawing the boy into a half conscious state, all the child could seem to manage. The flushed face screwed up as the healer tried to get him to drink, and he buried his face against his father's tunic.   
  
"You must drink it, little one," Denethor murmured, shifting so the boy's head was lifted enough to drink.   
  
Faramir gave a soft cry, but did not turn away again as Denethor gently turned his face to take the liquid. The healer held it to his lips, Denethor stroking the boy's throat gently to help him swallow. The simple act seemed to exhaust him, and he crumpled back against his father when it was drained.   
  
Denethor was making nonsense shushing noises, bathing his son's hot face as he rocked them back and forth. "I fear for him, Imrahil, I fear for my little one. This could take him from us."  
  
"Do not despair, he yet lives, have hope!" Imrahil told the shaken man who held his little son close as if to keep him bound to life. Rarely did he feel compassion for the Steward of Gondor, whose faults numbered many, but he did now feel compassion for Denethor the father, who cradled his beloved dying child close to his heart.   
  
*****   
  
"Awake, Estel!" The urgent voice roused the sleeper towards wakefulness, even as long fingers gently pushed the hair out of his face. He had been so tired he had fallen asleep still fully clothed on his bed.   
  
"Ada?"   
  
"Yes child, there is a need for your skills." There was a pause and Elrond's voice took on a humorous tone even as his fingers slid gently though the dark hair of one he considered a son. "Do you tend to sleep with a dagger under your pillow now?"   
  
Aragorn, called Estel by the elves of his childhood still, flushed as he hauled himself onto his elbows. "It is not a new habit, but one I did not have when I was last home."   
  
"I shall warn your brothers," Elrond teased gently. "For if I do not I believe I will have them as patients before long."   
  
Aragorn grinned shakily, but he could hear the sadness in his foster father's voice. His time spent at home in the last 20 years amounted to little more than a year, mere moments to an elf. He had changed much in that time, the child Elrond had known disappearing into the man he was now. It did not diminish the love he had for the man, for indeed Estel was one of his sons, but it still pained him to see the man replace the boy, no matter how necessary.   
  
"I am sorry to wake you, Estel, but there is a matter that needs urgent attention," Elrond said, "And you may be the only one who can make this right again."   
  
"What has happened?" Aragorn asked, worried for his foster father was not often so distressed.   
  
"I had a vision tonight, a glimpse of what might be," Elrond frowned, "Of something that is not supposed to be."  
  
"How am I to help?" Aragorn asked, confused.   
  
"There is someone who needs aid only you can give him, Estel, for only your hands can deliver this cure," Elrond told him, seeing understanding dawn in his son's eyes.   
  
"Who? Where are they?" Aragorn asked immediately.   
  
"It is a boy in Gondor, who grows closer to death with every passing hour, I fear," Elrond replied. "You must help him, for the future grows much darker should he pass now."   
  
"Gondor? I cannot go back to Gondor, Denethor will have me thrown from the land, and do the throwing from atop the highest point of Minas Tirith!" Aragorn muttered.  
  
"You would not reach the city where he lays in time to save him, even if you were to catch a flight on an eagle. No, you are not going to Gondor, but there are other ways you might help him but," And here Elrond stopped, and turned, putting his hands on his son's shoulders, "they are not without risks. I am willing to take them myself, I am less willing to take them with you. It is your choice."  
  
Aragorn hesitated for a moment, then nodded, following Elrond to his study. "You say he is a boy?"   
  
"A child, even by the standards of man; he is five years of age, and very weak from other ailments. You must be careful, my son, for the fever that has taken him is not natural, though I cannot discern its source," Elrond cautioned.  
  
"But if I am not to go to Gondor how can I help him?" Aragorn asked.  
  
"It would not be possible, were the circumstances not just so, but as they are..." Elrond paused. "I have the gift of foresight, of visions, as does this little child, though the gifts are yet dormant within him. Through that, we can reach him, and you may heal him."  
  
Elrond selected a large, dusty tome from a shelf half hidden in his study, "Through but a dream we will save this child." 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: It still belong to Tolkien.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Denethor wept and wailed inside, though he stayed calm out of necessity, his heart breaking as he held his little son in a tub of ice cold water. This was the healers' last attempt to break the fever that seemed to climb higher still despite their efforts, and he knew it. Denethor had sent two of the Tower Guard themselves to try and fetch ice from the nearby mountain to try and cool the burning body of his little child.   
  
The feverish little boy fretted in his hands, the cold water feeling hellish against his too hot skin. Denethor held him there, trying to soothe the boy, until the healers told him to remove him from the water. Denethor wished he could have held his little one in those moments but the healers instructed him to place the child on a bed, covered in a very thin sheet, until it was time to put him in the ice bath again.   
  
So Denethor sat by the bed, stroking the child's hair as Faramir's glazed grey eyes tried to focus on his father and failed. The boy was whimpering in pain, but nothing seemed to ease it, and the soft sounds tore at his father's heart.   
  
Imrahil had brought Boromir in to see his brother just before they began the ice baths. Denethor cringed; remembering the look upon his the face of his eldest, knowing Boromir recognized the visit for what it was; a farewell. The ten year old had knelt beside the chair where Denethor rocked Faramir and found the courage to speak through his tears.   
  
Faramir had not the strength to rouse during his brother's farewell, had only been drawn back to semi-consciousness by the pain as the baths began. Denethor feared that all his little son would know, ere his waning strength gave out, would be that pain, that burning.   
  
Denethor dropped a kiss to the dark hair, a tear dribbling down from his cheek into the sweaty locks. Someone told him it was time to put Faramir into the bath again, but as he moved to pick his son up the boy cried out, convulsions gripping his small form, fever seizures taking him.   
  
*****   
  
"Relax, Estel, or this will not work," Elrond told him, his fingers gently massaging Aragorn's temples in an effort to get him to relax.   
  
"I do not understand how this will work," Aragorn sighed.   
  
"Trust me," Elrond advised, "and worry about healing the boy and keeping yourself safe."   
  
Elrond did not mention that he too would be keeping his foster son safe. There were risks involved in what they were about to attempt; the worst chance being that one of them might meet their doom that night. It would only be one of them; Elrond would make sure of that even, it meant he would journey to Mandos to save Aragorn from departing for the halls of his fathers.   
  
Aragorn was his son; he would do no less for any of his children.   
  
"How is this going to work, Ada? I would be able to relax if I knew!" Aragorn asked, frustrated. He did know that he would not be in full control -- something he was not fond of giving up.   
  
"It is a difficult process to explain. This has not been done for a very long time. I do not, in fact, have a clear memory of the last time it was done," Elrond said. "I will try to link with the boy through our shared gifts, which is the most difficult part of this, for I have little to no knowledge of him. Linking to you will be easy, for we share some blood, far back but it is still blood shared, and I have exercised my healing powers on you enough..."   
  
The words were accompanied by a rather pointed look and Aragorn had the decency to squirm a bit before Elrond continued, "You, through my connection, will be able to heal the child. There is sorcery in this fever, some darker power wants him lost, but you are his rightful King and will be able to cast the shadows from him, though he will not understand this aspect."   
  
"Which is why we have brewed the athelas," Aragorn nodded, mulling over the explanation, knowing there were a great deal of details Elrond had left out. "I am not facing..."   
  
"No. Though there are touches of something similar in this," Elrond assured him, knowing his foster son doubted that ability within him yet. "You can do this, Aragorn, I am certain."   
  
"How is the athelas to be useful in a dream though?" Estel wondered.   
  
"I will make it so when you are in need of it," Elrond said absently. "Now relax, breath deeply, and let me..."   
  
Aragorn did as his father bid, concentrating on the feeling of the elf lord's fingers at his temples until they seemed to fall away. Aragorn shook his head, becoming frustrated. "It did not work, Ada, we are running..."   
  
Aragorn had opened his eyes to darkness. It was not quite black but grey and the shadows were deepening. Aragorn realized, with a start, that he seemed to cast the shadows away. It was not a glow he was emitting; Aragorn would know how that appeared for he had grown up among elves, but the...air? around him became lighter.   
  
Aragorn looked around, swallowing. It had worked, he supposed, but Elrond had told him he would know what to do and he did not!   
  
Then a sound caught his ear. His head turned and he saw the boy, huddled into a ball, dark waves of curly hair obscuring his features.   
  
Aragorn crouched before him, and the boy seemed to sense his presence and glanced up. Red rimmed grey eyes met his and Aragorn felt his heart was lost. This child was special; he knew that to be true, and Aragorn *would* spare his life. There was no other option.   
  
The grey eyes regarded him solemnly, not afraid, Aragorn noticed, no, not afraid but impossibly curious, and impossibly wise for one of these few years. He was reminded nothing more of the many instances when he had gazed into the eyes of one of his dearest friends, the elf Prince Legolas Thranduillion. His age seemed beyond reckoning to many humans but Aragorn knew he was one of the youngest of his people who remained in Arda, considered one of the last Elven youth to be born upon its shores.   
  
"Shh, tithenmin, all will be well, I have come to help you," Aragorn soothed, opening his arms to the child.   
  
*****   
  
The light was dim in the back room of the Hall of Healing. Denethor sat in the rocking chair with his youngest son, only the soft glow of an oil lamp lighting them. It masked the paleness of his son's face, Denethor thought, and made him look more like himself.   
  
Faramir fought for every breath now. Denethor could feel the struggle beneath his hand, which gently stroked the little chest, trying to ease his breathing. The boy no longer fretted but lay so deathly still in Denethor's arms that had his father still had not felt the shallow breaths stir against his hand.   
  
The healers had relented here, at the end, when no hope was to be found, and let Denethor hold his son. The child was all but gone and it seemed too cruel to deny his father the small comfort of holding him while he passed.   
  
Boromir had long since fallen asleep, having wept his eyes dry in Imrahil's arms after leaving the Halls. If he had still been awake Denethor may have consented to his presence but he had not the heart to wake his eldest son to witness death of his beloved brother. The boy had been in the room when his mother passed, quite by accident, and Denethor knew it still haunted the boy.   
  
Imrahil had sat with him for a time, saying nothing, his hand stroking Faramir's dark locks as Denethor massaged his chest. Denethor wanted to be alone with his little one for a time, though, and Imrahil had respected that, pressing a farewell kiss to the burning brow before leaving father and son alone.   
  
Denethor was not sure of what he was feeling any longer. His whole being was centered on the barely discernable rise and fall of his son's chest, of doing what little he could to ease his breathing, to keep his little one with him for a little longer...just a little longer...   
  
Silent tears trickled down his weary face. He would not give into outright weeping, no, for that would obscure his vision and he not lose a moment's sight of his little son still alive. He could not make a sound, for that would drown out the all too quiet sound of the raspy breathing. He could not spare a precious second when any might be the last.   
  
*****   
  
"Have you come to take me to Mama?" The boy asked his voice very soft. Aragorn noticed that the shadows seemed to stalk him and motioned the boy into his arms.   
  
"No, tithenmin," Aragorn told him, somehow knowing that the boy's mother was dead. "It is not time for you to join her yet."   
  
"I miss her," the boy sighed, and Aragorn was relived to feel the little body willingly come into his embrace. "But I do not think my brother and Papa would like it if I left too."   
  
"No, I am sure they would not," Aragorn whispered, tightening his arms around the child, wanting the keep the shadows at bay. He, in truth, had no idea who this boy was, but did not doubt one such as he could be unloved.   
  
It surprised him to feel warmth radiating off the child even in this dream. It was not often, Aragorn knew, that a sickness went this deep. They were running out of time.   
  
"My name is Faramir," the boy said, looking up at him with those big grey eyes before resting his tired head on Aragorn's shoulder. "You have a name too, I think. You are like me, only different..."   
  
Aragorn chuckled. "Yes, tithenmin, I am simply older than you, and have the help of another. My name is..."   
  
Here, Aragorn hesitated, he had no idea who this boy was, and spreading word that the Heir to the throne of Gondor lived in self imposed exile could not spread. "I have many names, Faramir, but let me be Estel to you."   
  
Faramir looked thoughtful for a moment. "That means hope, does it not?"   
  
"Yes, it does," Aragorn told him, feeling absurdly pleased the child knew at least part of the language he had grown up with.   
  
"You are not an elf though," Faramir appeared confused.   
  
"No, just a man," Aragorn said firmly. "I have come to help heal you."   
  
Faramir nodded, "Papa will be glad."   
  
"Yes..." Again Aragorn hesitated. "I am sure he will be glad but I want you to promise me something."   
  
Aragorn felt the dark head nod against his shoulder, "You must tell no one that I came to your aid."   
  
"They would not understand, would they?" Faramir asked.   
  
"No, let them think it a miracle," Aragorn laughed, gently ruffling the boy's hair.   
  
Faramir smiled brightly at him, but then his face fell, becoming pinched with pain as he gave a soft cry. Aragorn tightened his hold, speaking urgently. "Listen to me, Faramir. You must trust me, try to relax and do not let go of me. This may hurt, but you must not give up, I will be with you, I will help you. Can you do this for me, tithenmin?"   
  
"Yes," Faramir whispered shakily, closing his eyes tight and pressing closer to Aragorn as the arms around him tightened.   
  
Aragorn began to whisper something, chanting it so softly Faramir could not hear it at first. A scent of something seemed to wrap around them, and Faramir relaxed against Aragorn's strong chest, feeling somehow refreshed. Even as the pain returned, trying to tear him away, he knew it would be alright.   
  
As the scent of athelas surrounded them Aragorn felt his strength grow and remembered Elrond was there too, his father would help if anything were to go amiss. His voice grew louder.   
  
"Light to the darkness, life to the dying, away shadows, away!"   
  
Faramir stiffened, his hands clutching at Aragorn's shirt, and a ragged cry of pain breaking past the boy's pale lips. Aragorn held fast to him.   
  
"Light to the darkness, life to the dying, away shadows, away! I cast you away!"   
  
Aragorn would never be sure how long the struggle lasted, only that he was soon yelling, clutching the boy as tightly to him as Faramir held onto him.   
  
"Light to the darkness, life to the dying, away shadows, away! I cast you away! You cannot have him! AWAY!"   
  
It was, in the end, over with a great flash of dazzling light that made Aragorn feel dizzy. He felt exhausted, and he doubted he had anything but a rasp of a voice left. They still clung to each other; Faramir still nestled against him, and Aragorn could feel the little body was cool to his touch.   
  
The boy hesitantly raised his head from Aragorn's chest, loosening his tight hold. Aragorn gave him an exhausted smile and Faramir let out a tinkling laugh. "We did it!"   
  
Aragorn chuckled. "Yes, tithenmin, we did."   
  
It was then Aragorn noticed they appeared to be on a beach of some sort and gave pleased smile as he recognized the sandy shores of Dol Amroth. So, he thought, this is what the little one dreams of when he is not beset by shadows.   
  
Then he looked down the beach and started, spotting three people set up for a picnic further down the shore. Of all the things, of all the people...Aragorn laughed, he had to. "Is that your family, tithenmin?"   
  
Faramir looked and let out a squeal of joy. "Yes! And now I know all is well and this is a dream for Papa would never come to the beach with us! Especially never to eat. He said sand was not part of his lunch and never would be even when Mama laughed at him."   
  
Aragorn laughed heartily, feeling slightly giddy with exhaustion and relief. "It is your dream, tithenmin, go join them."   
  
Faramir smiled brightly at him again and for once heartbeat nestled back into Aragorn's arms, whispering in his ear, "You will visit me again in my dreams, soon, I know it. Thank you!"   
  
With that the boy took off down the shore, sand flying up from his feet as he ran, leaving Aragorn kneeling bewildered on the shore even as he felt the dream fade, and a familiar presence grasp him by the shoulders.   
  
"Ada," Aragorn gasped, opening his eyes to his father's study.   
  
"My Estel," Elrond said quietly, and Aragorn found himself slouching into his father's arms. "You did very well, my son."   
  
"I am exhausted," Aragorn admitted then laughed. "You did not tell me I was to save Denethor's son!"   
  
"Would it have made a difference, Estel?" Elrond asked gently.   
  
"No, none at all. That man is blessed by his children," Aragorn murmured, his eyes drooping.   
  
  
  
"I do believe I know the feeling," Elrond smiled, pressing a relieved kiss to his son's brow. "There is, however, one thing I should tell you before you can reacquaint yourself with your bed."   
  
"Faramir is well, is he not?" Aragorn asked, suddenly worried.   
  
"Oh yes, he will be fine. But...You remember I told you there were risks involved, son," Elrond said seriously. "One, I believe has come to pass."   
  
"Ada?" Aragorn asked unsurely.   
  
"Nothing that will harm you or the boy, Estel, but you settled so deeply into the link I formed between you and he I could not fully break it when I withdrew us," Elrond told him. "You will be able to reach each other through your dreams, should you wish it. I can teach you to block him from yours; given some time, for I do not believe all you dream is suitable for a child."   
  
"No," Aragorn agreed. "They are not."   
  
"Tonight you need not worry of it, you will sleep without dreams tonight, I believe, for you have exhausted yourself," Elrond told him, aiding his son to his feet.   
  
"You have exhausted me!" Aragorn protested. "I was sleeping peacefully until you woke me."   
  
"Yes, sleeping peacefully with a dagger beneath your pillow," Elrond said, amused.   
  
Aragorn snorted, then leaned against his father more heavily, "I am glad we spared him, Ada, important to the future or not, he is a special child."   
  
"I know the sort," Elrond said gently, guiding his son to down the hall to his room, supporting him with an arm around his waist.   
  
*****   
  
Denethor felt his heart stop as Faramir's breathing changed and he let out a long sigh. For a moment, all he knew was blinding grief...   
  
But...the chest beneath his hand moved again. Faramir's ragged breathing eased, deepened and evened out. Sweat broke suddenly across his forehead and Denethor's eyes widened as he felt the skin beneath his hand begin to cool.   
  
He would have called the healers immediately but his voice seemed to be lost. He stared dumbly, joy soaring to life in his heart, as his so stirred and big grey eyes fluttered open. They were bleary and exhausted but they focussed on him!   
  
"Papa..." Faramir mumbled before he buried his head in the soft material of  
  
Denethor's shirt and drifted back into his dreams of Dol Amroth sand.   
  
"Oh Faramir, my dear little son," Denethor managed hoarsely and now he did weep for sheer relief.   
  
Imrahil, standing outside the door, heard the Steward begin to cry and ventured in hesitantly, thinking Faramir had finally succumbed to the fever. Denethor looked up and beckoned his brother-in-law over, wiping hastily at his tears.   
  
"Our little one is not leaving us yet," Denethor managed his voice shaking with relief. "The fever has broken."   
  
Imrahil touched a hand to the boy's forehead and stared in wonder, "How is this possible?"   
  
"I care not! Fetch the healers, the fever has broken and he shall live. My Faramir shall live!"  
  
*****  
  
Author's Note: No, this isn't the end. This is gearing up to be a good long story, in fact I've got ideas for it up to Aragorn's coronation. I will, however, be sticking to canon as closely as possibly so, sorry, no Boromir lives or Denethor doesn't go a bit mad and turn into a great sodding git. There are, however, lots of little moments to be explored before then.   
  
Also, sorry but don't expect updates to come this quickly on a regular basis. I'm on reading week right now but normally school keeps me plenty busy! Thanks, as always, to the world's best beta, Mandi, and REVIEW! Please, it makes me very happy.  
  
Tithenmin means "little one" according to Mandi's dictionary, since I couldn't find one, and it's used here as a pet name sort of thing. Ada means, more or less, Dad. What Aragorn says is something inspired by a slice of a poem of Tolkien's, or more specifically this bit:  
  
When death's shadow grows  
  
And all lights pass  
  
Come athelas, come athelas  
  
Life to the dying  
  
In the king's hand lying...  
  
It is meant to deal with black breath but I stretched it a bit. Hmm...Okay, really, shorter author's notes from now on. 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Still don't own em.   
  
Chapter 3   
  
Denethor rubbed a tired hand over his eyes before lifting a pen to the parchment. Imrahil was still with them, for Faramir was weak yet, but in the few days past Denethor had fallen back into his work, and there seemed to be mountains of it to catch up on. Imrahil had made much headway, and Denethor would grudgingly admit that the other man was quite astute when it came to such things. He would even admit it in public, he thought, for he did feel gratitude towards the man whose presence had allowed him to spend much time with his recovering son.   
  
It had been three weeks since Faramir's fever had broken in the early watches of the morn. The healers were still not sure how it had been broken but so long as it did not come back Denethor could not find himself caring how it had, just that it had. There had been some concern it would return but it had not yet and though Faramir was fragile still he was on the mend.   
  
The first week Faramir had been able to do little more than wake long enough to take nourishment, and it was often Denethor who coaxed weak broth or flavourless porridge past his lips. The boy had been sick for so long anything else would have made him sick to his stomach, only now was he beginning to eat more solid food.   
  
In the first days after the fever had broken another fear rested upon Denethor's heart. Three fever seizures had visited Faramir while he lay burning and such things were known to permanently scar the mind of those who were caught by them. But as Faramir gained more strength and grew more lucid there appeared to be no damage. The boy was still being watched carefully but the healers were cautiously hopeful that there would be no lasting effects.  
  
The boy was fragile still, having only just been moved back to the set of rooms he and Boromir shared a few days ago, but he had been ill for some time and it was to be expected that his recovery would take time. His little one had, Denethor reflected, been reduced to the very dregs of his strength.   
  
The door of his study creaked open but Denethor did not look up. He was becoming used to Imrahil coming and going, as they often needed the same parchments within the span of a day. Despite his appreciation of Imrahil's help it would be nice, Denethor thought, when his study was completely his own again.   
  
Denethor felt a slight tug on his pants and, surprised, looked down into a pair of very big, solemn eyes, seemingly larger because of the thin face they were housed in. He immediately scooped the boy up into his lap and tucked the fur cloak that hung on the back of his chair around his thin body. He shook his head; Faramir had gotten out of bed in only his nightclothes after being ill for months and was shivering like a leaf in a storm.   
  
"You should not be out of bed," Denethor told him slightly more gruffly then he had intended, as Faramir fidgeted in his arms, "Do you want to take ill again?"  
  
The messy mop of dark curls shook as his son settled and back leaned against him. Faramir was tired; the walk to his father's rooms had never seemed so far before!   
  
"Breathe for me, little one," Denethor instructed, placing a hand on the boy's chest, relieved to feel none of the rattle that had plagued the boy's chest for months.   
  
Faramir turned, pressing his cheek against the heavy, soft material of his father's tunic and curling a thin, delicate hand in the material as was his habit. "You did not come to see me yesterday and you have not today either. I missed you!"  
  
Denethor softened at that and his annoyance fled as his son's bottom lip trembled. He had spent much time with Faramir during his recovery so far, and had not meant to be absent but a matter he had been pushing back so as to be with his little one had demanded his attention and he had taken the better part of yester day and night to finish dealing with it.   
  
Denethor had planned to visit the child today, after he finished the annoyance that was paperwork. He had actually crept into Faramir's chambers to simply watch his youngest breathe late last night, well after the boy had been tucked in for the night by his brother, who could be found at Faramir's side for every spare moment he had.  
  
They had come too close to losing him, Denethor thought, and Faramir would not be the only one healing after that experience. Boromir had only begun sleeping easily again within the past few nights, and only then because he still shared a sleeping chamber with his little brother. Denethor himself had been taken by one or two nightmares where Faramir's breathing had stopped with that soft sigh, and found himself stealing to his bedside just to reassure himself his little one yet lived.   
  
Faramir had taken ill so soon after Finduilas had left them, so soon that the wounds from her death were still fresh.   
  
They were very alike, his late wife and his youngest. Denethor had feared that the boy would not understand it when Finduilas had passed. It was the opposite. The dear child had understood it too well, and had not voiced a word of protest during her funeral. It had been a desperately cold day and Denethor had not been watching carefully enough, heartbroken as he was.   
  
It was only when the boy had started to cough quietly, trying, at five, to muffle the sounds out of respect, that Denethor had looked down and seen his son shivering fiercely, his lips turned blue from the cold. He had picked the boy up immediately and buried him in the folds of his cloak.  
  
But even then, as he held his son's frigid body close to him to try and warm him, he had felt a slight rattle in his chest. He had torn his eyes away from his wife's body, laid out in state so those her loved her intimately or simply as their Lady could pay tribute, looking for some way to get the boy inside and do something to ease his breathing.   
  
They were in the front of all the mourners and Denethor could not leave, nor would Faramir let go of him to be passed to his nurse for he did not want to leave his Mama until he had to. Denethor contented himself with holding his son close as he felt the boy's tears begin to trickle onto his shoulder, resolving to do something about the cold forming in his youngest as soon as the opportunity presented itself, but by then it had already been too late.   
  
"I am sorry, little one," Denethor said softly, drawing his son closer, stroking the dark hair gently and smiling softly as he saw Faramir's eyelids droop. "I will not stay away so long again."   
  
A memory came, unbidden, as Faramir sighed contentedly and snuggled further into his father's embrace. Denethor had helped put Faramir to bed whenever the opportunity arose, he did enjoy spending time with wife and son as Finduilas tucked the smallest member of their family into bed. She had then selected a book from the shelves, smiling as Faramir pointed and untucked the covers in his excitement.   
  
Tucking the child back into bed, and smoothing his hair down with a loving hand, she had read to him until he was fast asleep. All types of stories had been told during the night time ritual but the favourite of both his wife and son had been tales of the Elves.   
  
Denethor wondered who, if any, had taken up that tradition now. He knew Boromir had seen the child to bed before Faramir took seriously ill, indeed, he had tucked him in a few times himself, but he had not read to him and again Faramir had not voiced a complaint. Sometimes Denethor worried for his boys, who were children in a grown-up world with little contact with others of their own age. They had very little chance to play, it seemed, and when they did it was always with each other.   
  
"How would you like it if I put you to bed and read you a story tonight, little one? I fear you are falling asleep on me," Denethor asked with a warm chuckle. "I also have no doubt your brother and the healer that comes to visit you have realized your absence by now and must be worrying, for I do believe you must have snuck past them to visit with me."  
  
"I am sorry, Papa." The head tilted upwards, a faint blush creeping across the pale cheeks even as the big grey eyes shone slightly with surprise and happiness. "I would like a story very much."  
  
"Good. First we must see the healer," Denethor's voice gentled at Faramir's scowl, "I know their brews taste horrible but they make you well and strong again so it must be endured. I will see there is a cup of cocoa waiting for you afterwards, to make the taste go away."  
  
At that Faramir smiled again, for he had only been allowed cocoa for two days and it did happen to be his drink of choice. He held on as Denethor shifted so he could properly carry the boy and rose.   
  
It was then that Faramir's soft voice asked a question that both broke Denethor's heart and made him love his youngest son all the more. "Papa...Do you think...Might you read me a bedtime story on other nights sometimes? When you are not too busy looking after our city?"  
  
"I think, Faramir, that you might have a story every night when your father looks after his sons as he should," Denethor told him.   
  
Faramir let out a soft sigh at that. "I know Gondor needs you, Papa, but sometimes...I miss Mama very much."  
  
Denethor was glad Faramir was not looking at him in that moment. It would simply not do for the child to see his eyes with tears in them. "As do I, little one, as do I."   
  
Denethor was right, Boromir had been near frantic to find Faramir gone when he returned from dinner and the healer had just sent someone to fetch him when he walked in, Faramir still in his arms and wrapped in his cloak so that only the top of his head was visible. Boromir had hugged his brother almost too tightly when Denethor set him down on the bed, but Faramir voiced no complaint.  
  
Denethor frowned, that was becoming a bad habit in his youngest. It was one thing to bare rather bad situations stoically, it was quite another to do so to this extent, especially for a five year old! Denethor feared it would only lead to more situations such as this one.   
  
The healer plied him with brews of one sort or another, Faramir scowling all the while even as the healer told him he was not to get out of bed unless given permission. After he left Denethor spoiled the lesson slightly by giving both his boys cocoa and settling them into Faramir's bed for a story.  
  
Boromir, Denethor knew, thought himself too old for such things, and indeed would have protested the hour too early for bed if anyone had suggested it to him. But Faramir's illness had been trying for him and Denetor wisely said nothing when he found comfort in those little things.  
  
They had both fallen asleep to the story, Boromir first, curled around his little brother as much for his comfort as for Faramir's. Faramir held out only a few minutes longer, wishing in vain to hear the entire story that night.   
  
Denethor had tucked the blankets around them, pressing a kiss to both their foreheads before turning the lamp down low. The two brothers did not normally sleep as such, nor would Denethor normally permit it, but he had recently been making exceptions for quite a few things he would not normally tolerate. It would do them both good, the closeness, for both suffered from their mother's death and Faramir's near death still.   
  
Denethor lingered a few moments more, glad his sons cared so for each other, before posting two of the Tower Guard at the door, as he had done to make sure it would be noticed immediately if Faramir showed signs of further illness, and returning to his work.   
  
*****  
  
Aragorn was surprised to hear a childish giggle, for there had been no children he had known of in Rivendell since he had passed into manhood. Then he saw he was in a garden, one he recognized as being in Gondor, and realized he must have fallen asleep in the large, overstuffed armchair he preferred in the Hall of Fire again.  
  
It also meant he had a visitor and that visitor was busying himself by leaping into Aragorn's arms. Aragorn laughed, and caught the child easily. "Tithenmin! I did not expect to see you again so soon!"  
  
Since he had healed Faramir they had shared one dream, and it was a short one as his foster brothers had returned home from a hunt that day and decided, despite their Adar's warning, it would be a good idea to wake their little brother up quite suddenly. Elrohir had nearly had a finger sliced off, for Aragorn simply could not sleep without the dagger there any longer.   
  
Faramir was back to his former self in his dreams, and it was by that that Aragorn knew the illness had been successful chased from him, though they were no closer to figuring out who had inflicted the unnatural fever upon the child. Aragorn was glad to see it, glad to see the boy smiling as he let go of Aragorn and looked up at him with sparkling grey eyes.  
  
"Me either! Where are we? This looks like the gardens at the Halls but smaller and messier," Faramir questioned.   
  
Aragorn started, realizing this was a garden Ecthelion had puttered about in when he had the time, which was rarely, hence its unkempt appearance. But...if Faramir had not been the one to find him in dreams then Aragorn must have been the one who wished to see him.   
  
"These are the gardens of a friend of mine, he found the pursuit relaxing but had little time to pursue it," Aragorn answered. "Have you been feeling better?"  
  
Faramir nodded absently, exploring the garden. "I'm allowed to have better food to eat now. I hate soup. But I'm not allowed to do much yet. I think I made the healer cross because I snuck out of bed to visit my Papa."  
  
Aragorn chuckled, "You should not be out of bed, tithenmin. You do not want to take ill again, do you?"  
  
Faramir scowled, "That's what Papa said."  
  
Aragorn felt like throwing his head back and laughing. Now that he was removed from the situation he could find a hint of humour in his relationship with the Steward of Gondor though he was very glad he no longer had to deal with that man on a regular basis.   
  
"You should listen to your father," Aragorn said his voice sounding funny even to his own ears. "He is a...wise man."  
  
Faramir looked at him from where he had pulled a dandelion from the midst of a patch of irises. "You know my Papa?"  
  
"Somewhat, once," Aragorn responded vaguely.  
  
"You have been to Gondor then?" Faramir questioned eagerly.   
  
"How do you know your father did not visit my home?" Aragorn asked with a smile.  
  
"Papa never leaves Gondor," Faramir replied.   
  
"No, I suppose he would not journey so far, for the place I call home is quite some distance," Aragorn said. "We did meet in Gondor."  
  
"Why did you leave?" Faramir asked.  
  
"Many reasons," Aragorn replied. "I missed my father and brothers."  
  
"You have a brother too?" Faramir's ears perked up.  
  
Aragorn chuckled for he had quickly learned of the great love between the brothers of Gondor. It did not surprise him, though he knew many royal siblings feuded, all those he knew personally were very close. Elrond's twin boys, his own adopted brothers, could bicker incessantly for sport if the mood hit them but drawing a weapon to Elrohir was equal to cutting your own throat, so quickly would Elladan slay you. They accepted Aragorn as their own as well, and Aragorn knew he would be as inclined to cheerfully slay anyone who dared try to harm those he called his kin.   
  
"Worse, I have twin brothers and they are Elven," Aragorn said seriously.   
  
Faramir wrinkled his nose, "That does not sound like a bad thing."  
  
"It is not, normally, but my brothers enjoy playing pranks on each other and me," Aragorn told him. "And these two Elf brothers of mine are better prank pullers than I."  
  
Faramir giggled, "Boromir does not play pranks on me..."  
  
Aragorn smiled as Faramir launched into the tale of one of his and Boromir's adventures. They must make, he thought, quite the pair.   
  
He idly listened to the boy's chatter as his thoughts strayed to earlier that evening. He and Elrond had gotten into an argument earlier in the evening that had frustrated Aragorn to no end. He almost wanted the Elf Lord to lose his patience, just to show the situation aggravated him as much as it did Aragorn, but Elrond always managed to display such an appearance of cool indifference whenever they quarrelled.  
  
It was not that Elrond did not care; Aragorn knew that was far from the case. The Elf Aragorn knew as his Ada would always love him, would always care, it was just Elrond's way of staying calm during arguments as Aragorn could not.   
  
They had been discussing a book Aragorn had been browsing through idly while he lingered in Rivendell for a time but the discussion had turned to Gondor and the fact it had an absent King and that always turned into an argument. Elrond wanted to see his son fulfil his destiny and Aragorn did not have the slightest inclination to make the Stewardship a thing of the past by reclaiming his throne.   
  
He had no desire to rule, Elrond knew this and normally they avoided the topic, agreeing to disagree on the matter, but...that night they had just fallen into it. It ended with Aragorn retreating to the Hall of Fire, though he knew they would mend things by the time they broke their fast tomorrow.   
  
It bothered him, still, the knowledge that he had this Kingdom waiting to be claimed. He would have been content to be Estel of Imladris for all his days or even Strider of the Dunedain.   
  
Why should he take the reign from the line of Stewards? However much he did not enjoy Denethor's company the man was a good Steward and if his two sons were made of the metal he could see in Faramir even now...Why did Gondor need him?  
  
What would it be like, he wondered briefly, to have a future where so much did not rest on his shoulders? What would it be like if he were not fettered to this old, destiny ridden line?   
  
"...but then Uncle Imrahil found us and took us back to Mama, who was not very happy," Faramir finished, and Aragorn realized he had missed most of the tale.   
  
"That sounds to be quite an adventure," Aragorn murmured.  
  
"Boromir thought so," Faramir nodded, hair falling in his eyes as he did. Aragorn brushed it back for him. "Dol Amroth is different than Minas Tirith though."   
  
"How so, tithenmin?" Aragorn asked.  
  
"Dol Amroth is for fun," Faramir said. "Boromir and I do not have lessons, at least none that we do not enjoy, and Mama's family is not so serious as Papa has to be and we do not have to be the Steward's sons there, because grandfather is in charge, so we do not always have to remember to be as good as when we are at home."  
  
Aragorn drew in a sharp breath, unnerved by the astuteness of this child. Sometimes he forgot he was looking not only at Faramir but at Gondor's child, who had been so since before his first breath. Aragorn had, at least, a childhood oblivious of his heritage, Faramir was steeped in it from the moment he was first aware.   
  
"But Gondor is special and Papa and Boromir and my tutors always say we will defend it until our last breath but I am too young to," Faramir's brow creased. "Boromir and I go watch the soldiers practise often, he wants to hurry and grow so he can join the army but I do not want him to."  
  
"It is a great honour to serve in Gondor's army, tithenmin," Aragorn said gently.  
  
"But soldiers die," Faramir said flatly, "and I do not want Boromir to die, I do not want any of our people to die."  
  
"Sometimes it must be so, Faramir," Aragorn fumbled for words, wondering with bewilderment how he had ended up in this conversation. "Sometimes there is no choice and soldiers must fight or..."  
  
Aragorn paused on the verge of saying 'everyone will die.' It would not do to scare the child like that. "...or bad things will happen."  
  
Faramir sighed unhappily, "I know, my tutor said so too, but I still do not like it."  
  
"Very few people do," Aragorn told him. "But you should not worry about such things. Boromir will not join the army until he is of age, and he still has some years to go, and you have even more."  
  
Faramir did not look happy still but nodded and climbed back into Aragorn's lap, leaning against him. "Are you in the army?"  
  
"Not quite," Aragorn told him, "but I have seen my share of battle and will see more in the future."  
  
"Will you be careful?" Faramir asked quietly.  
  
Aragorn brushed a hand over the child's cheek, "I am always careful, tithenmin. Do not worry for me, I will be fine."  
  
It seemed to mollify Faramir, who began chattering again, this time about a story his father was reading him, which his mother had already read to him. He did not mind though, he told Aragorn, because he liked the story and his father read it differently than his mother had, making it almost like a new story.  
  
It made Aragorn's thoughts dwell on another subject he and his Adar simply never discussed. Arwen.   
  
He often wondered; idly when he was out alone in the wild with only the stars for company what it would be to have a family, with her. He never thought of having one without her it just...no longer made sense when he did.   
  
Elrond, of course, had declared he would not allow it until Aragorn claimed his birthright. That solution, Aragorn thought, left neither of them happy, for to have Arwen Aragorn would have to claim his Kingship, which he did not want, and for Elrond to see his son face and claim his destiny, as he wished him to, he would have to lose his only daughter to mortality, which Aragorn knew haunted him.   
  
It was a confusing situation, more so because of Aragorn's relationship with Elrond and the twins. They were his family, Elrond was his Ada, the only one he remembered knowing, and Elrohir and Elladan considered themselves his brothers but...he was in love with Arwen. Their sister.  
  
'Blasted Elves, Aragorn thought with fondness, who fails to mention a sister for some 30 odd years. I never knew her, or even of her, until I was grown, how was I to see her as my sister when she was but a beautiful stranger who had captured my heart upon first glance?'  
  
It was something the twins had not understood, how could they when 30 years was nothing to them, a drop in an ocean of endless life? It had caused some...friction in the family, even after Arwen departed again for Lothlorien.  
  
Aragorn left for a time, no longer sure he could call Rivendell his home, but the strain that had weighed so heavily on all of them had abated when he had been brought home by Legolas. The twins had not spoken to him again of their sister, his relationship with them picking up as before. Elrond had spoken to him, but as his Ada before anything else. They had not spoken of his love for Arwen since, though it had not abated and Aragorn was well aware Elrond knew it. The wounds were healed, but still tender.  
  
It did not stop him from thinking about her though, and the life he wished they could have together. He was acutely aware that Denethor, who was only a year younger than him, had two quickly growing children, one the dear boy chattering away in his lap. It was the one thing the Steward of Gondor had that Aragorn sometimes yearned for himself.  
  
It would come, one day, he knew, for all that he despised that he was tied to such a linage he sometimes he would not see it die. For now it was only a passing thought, and if Aragorn was honest with himself he knew he was not ready to be the things a family would demand him to be. Sometimes, though he would never admit it to anyone, growing up among the Elves made him feel impossibly young.   
  
The dream shifted, and Aragorn found himself in another garden, one he did not recognize, but one he could recognize as being within the white city. Faramir was distracted from his tale and Aragorn quickly realized that he was stirring towards wakefulness, the boy's dreams taking the forefront again.   
  
"I will see you again, tithenmin, but I do believe someone is trying to wake me, most likely one of those brothers I told you about," Aragorn said warmly.  
  
Faramir looked up at him, "You did not really tell me about them...You must have as many stories about them as I!"  
  
"Likely more," Aragorn agreed. "And when we meet in our dreams again I will tell you some, would you like that?"  
  
"Very much, Estel! Brothers do the silliest things," Faramir said, hugging Aragorn tightly for a moment.  
  
"Indeed, you rest and be well before you let yours pull you into any further adventures..."  
  
"Was the evening's entertainment really that boring to you, Estel?" A familiar voice asked a hint of amusement colouring it.  
  
"Adar," Aragorn blinked as the Elf Lord's face came into focus, he was crouching to his height. "I apologize, I did not mean to fall asleep, I did not disturb anything, did I?"  
  
"No, Estel, you did not begin to snore in the midst of Lindir's songs, if that is what you are asking," Elrond smiled slightly, for his son had done something similar before. "Your brothers noticed you had fallen asleep and when they departed they told me."  
  
"Good," Aragorn murmured, "Lindir still reminds me of that, I did not mean to fall asleep."  
  
"I was under the impression you had come home for a rest, so if you decided to fall asleep it is not a concern, unless you do it at the dinner table again," Elrond told him. "I do believe you would be more comfortable in your own bed though."  
  
"Yes, Adar," Aragorn mumbled, feeling a blush stain his cheeks.   
  
"Estel..." Elrond sighed, halting Aragorn as he began to rise from the chair by putting his hands on his shoulders. He touched the stubbled cheek gently, making Aragorn meet his eyes. "It was not my intent to upset you tonight, forgive me the words that hurt you."  
  
"Of course," Aragorn murmured, "If you forgive me mine."   
  
The Elf Lord smiled gently, and nodded, "Now, I am quite sure, comfortable as it is in that chair your back will thank you for sleeping in your own room tonight. Off to bed with you, child."  
  
"I am not a child," Aragorn protested automatically, as he had been doing since he reached the age of fifteen.  
  
"No, indeed you are not," Elrond observed seriously, "but you will always be *my* child."  
  
"I know, Ada," Aragorn responded quietly, not protesting when Elrond pulled him to his feet. He indulged himself in being cared for very rarely, he was tired, he would not be home for much longer a time before he journeyed out into the wilds again, he would indulge himself now.  
  
He was surprised when Elrond escorted him all the way to his rooms, father and son walking in comfortable silence until they reached the door to Aragorn's room, where Elrond halted his son and withdrew a small package from within the pockets of his robe.   
  
"Since you cannot seem to sleep without the weight of a dagger in your hand," Elrond said gently, with a slight smile, "and I wish for no injuries to mar any of my sons I have found you a substitute."  
  
It was a dagger with a blade so dull it would not have cut butter but the weight felt right to his palm, and Aragorn knew that he would indeed by able to sleep with this under his pillow instead of his own dagger.   
  
"It was my brother's, a very long time ago, and though it has fallen into a sad state you may be able to make it a useful blade before you leave us again," Elrond said. "May it serve you as well as it did him."  
  
"I...Thank you," Aragorn whispered. Elrond, he knew, still missed his twin Elros, Aragorn's ancestor; though they had been parted so many years ago, to be gifted with any of his possessions...Aragorn knew how great an honour it was.  
  
"Estel...We may not always agree on what your path in this life will be," Elrond told him gently, "but you are my son, and I will support you whatever path you choose, in the end. My love for you will not change, whether you wear a crown or no, I just wish for your happiness, ion-nin."  
  
Before Aragorn knew it Elrond had drawn him into a tight embrace, which Aragorn gladly returned. Elrond was reserved with many, but never his children. Aragorn struggled to find the words he wanted, "I know, Ada, I...Thank you, I...just...Thank you."  
  
Elrond kissed his son's brow, understanding what remained unspoken. "You are tired, go seek your bed. I would have you fully rested before you leave us again."   
  
"Goodnight, Ada," Aragorn said softly, not wanting to think about his departure from Rivendell in two weeks.   
  
"Goodnight, my Estel," Elrond said softly, wondering absently how the years he had spent fostering this child of his lost brother's line had slipped past and why, out of all those who had sought refuge in Rivendell, this mortal man would become one of his own.  
  
It was not easy, Elrond reflected, for Elves to bear any sort of love for mortals, whose lives slipped so swiftly by. He had lost many dear to his heart, both immortal and mortal, his King, slain fighting the Dark Lord, his wife, tormented and driven from Middle Earth by orcs, his brother, choosing the path of mortality...he would lose Estel, a child of his heart if not his blood, to the sands of time as well and was acutely aware he could lose all his children to mortality. Arwen would be lost to him if her heart bid her bind herself to Estel and Elrond knew that if one of his twins chose mortality the other would follow.   
  
'That choice is not before them yet,' Elrond thought, clinging to what years were left before then, 'But it will be. It will be.'  
  
*****  
  
It was late when Imrahil finally put away his work, stretched, and snuffed the oil lamps that had been lighting the room. The combined efforts of Denethor and himself had only just finished the work that Denethor had neglected to tend to his son. Running Gonder produced a stunning amount of paperwork that had to be read and signed by the Steward, or as the two men had operated within the last weeks, read by Imrahil and signed by the Steward.  
  
It was a position of trust and could have been easily abused. Imrahil knew it was a compliment that Denethor had called on him to fulfill the role, for he truly could not have looked after Faramir in as devoted a manner and governed Gondor at the same time. It was the sacrifice of ruling a realm, and one so troubled as Gondor became as Mordor's shadow darkened.   
  
'And there has not even been a council meeting yet,' Imrahil thought wryly, 'Those fireworks begin tomorrow afternoon and are likely to last all evening.'  
  
Reminding himself to fully brief Denethor on the issues he had taken care of in the past weeks in the morning after Denethor spent time with his sons, Imrahil left the make shift study that had been set up for him. He had to pass Denethor's on the way and quickly noticed that the oil lamps still burned bright through the slightly ajar door.   
  
Imrahil paused then pushed the door open further and stepped in. Denethor did not look up at him at first, finally becoming used to the traffic Imrahil created in his study. When Imrahil stood quietly, waiting for him to finish, instead of rummaging about to find what he needed Denethor looked up.  
  
"The council is meeting for the first time since Faramir's health declined tomorrow and there are a few matters I would like to discuss with you tomorrow before then," Imrahil said.  
  
"Of course. Is an hour long enough? I should like to meet at the eleventh hour, I planned to let Boromir eat with Faramir tomorrow at noon and would be there myself if it is possible," Denethor replied. "Faramir eats more when one of us is present, the healers tell me."  
  
"An hour should suffice," Imrahil said with a nod, then hesitated. "Denethor...Faramir's birthday is coming swiftly..."  
  
"Yes, a little under a month, his presents are..." Denethor paused and frowned, looked about for a moment. "They are somewhere in this room, that I do know. I am aware of it, and how he spent his last birthday, why do you ask?"  
  
Faramir had turned five only a few days after it had become apparent his mother would never walk under her own power again. She had been heartsick with the news, as had her family. Faramir had said nothing when his birthday was a lackluster affair, in fact the boy had all but forgotten it himself until Denethor brought out his presents. Sad, Imrahil knew, but by then Faramir had known his mother to be dying, so it had seemed to matter little to the child.  
  
"I was thinking of what to gift him, and it came across my mind that there were a few tokens of Dol Amroth that would undoubtedly please him," Imrahil said. "And then I wondered, as Faramir seems to thrive so in the sea air, if it would not be an idea to have the boys visit in the summer, as they used to with their mother."  
  
Denethor looked up sharply, "Faramir is unlikely to be fully recovered then."  
  
"So I have learned from the healers," Imrahil replied. "But he will be well enough to make the journey without taxing his health."  
  
"Oh," Denethor replied, looking shrewdly at his brother-in-law, "You think Dol Amroth's shores will help him regain his strength."  
  
"Indeed I do. It is in his blood, he had always thrived there," Imrahil said. "I would not have him make the journey if the healers do not agree, of course, and thought to take Boromir as well because I doubt they would wish to be parted for long even by then."  
  
"To be bluntly honest, Imrahil, I want very badly to say no to this but I want to for selfish reasons. I would not by parted from either of them..." Denethor sighed, and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. "But it is likely that they would both benefit from time spent there. I will think on it, and discuss it with the healers, and tell you before Faramir's birthday because that would be quite the pleasant surprise for him. He does love it there, like his mother."  
  
"It is likely I will not be leaving until the summer as things stand, for you still wish for me help while Faramir recovers. I could stay for a week or so here, and you could visit Dol Amroth with them, if you wished," Imrahil offered.  
  
Denethor drew in a sharp breath, "I...Thank you for your offer, but...No...I...No, I cannot. Dol Amroth without Finduilas...I cannot yet, it would be...too much."  
  
Imrahil's gaze softened. He had known Denethor still grieved deeply for his wife. "I understand but, should you reconsider, the offer will remain."  
  
Denethor nodded but as Imrahil turned to leave he spoke again, "I...I would ask you something I have greatly longed to but for fear of the answer."  
  
Imrahil looked back at the Steward, not untouched by the grief that was plan on his tired face. "Yes?"  
  
"When Finduilas became ill they called it sea pinning and...The fear has often come to me that...When I heard what the ailment was I made the offer to have her take up permanent residence in Dol Amroth again, and visit often, I more than offered but..." Denethor trailed off. "She did not accept, I do not understand why, I would rather have her alive by the sea than dead because I did not want her to leave this stone city!"  
  
Imrahil was surprised by Denethor's words. Had his sister not explained it to him? No, somehow that should not surprise him, for he too had thought his brother-in-law knew what it meant, for they had grown up knowing, had lost their own mother to it.  
  
"Denethor," Imrahil said gently, "what ailed my sister had little to do with removal from the seashore. She did love Dol Amroth but she loved you more. It is called sea pinning...I do not fully know why it is called that, it resembles Elven grief, if I recall correctly, which may explain the name."   
  
"But my sister did not die from lack of sea air. It was, I fear, something passed on to her by our mother, though she did not show signs of it until much later in life," Imrahil sighed. "But it too, set in with my mother after she had lost her third child early though I do believe it would have set in eventually either way. None of us thought it would take Finduilas too."  
  
"Thank you," Denethor said quietly. "You have no idea how that...I thought I had..."  
  
"Denethor, you are not to blame for Finduilas death, I know you did all in your power to save her and when you could not tried to ease her passing as best you could," Imrahil told him. "She was happy here to the very end."  
  
Denethor could only nod, not trusting his voice and, before he left, Imrahil saw what looked suspiciously like tears on his cheeks...but it could have just been a trick of the dim lighting.  
  
*****  
  
Author's Notes: This chapter turned out longer than I thought but...*shrugs* I will still be writing this but I've got two essays due in two weeks and then another due in three weeks so, basically, after that I'll get back to writing this story. Six weeks! Six weeks and, providing I fail nothing miserably, I will be a 2nd year student. HUZZAH!  
  
For any of you non-book readers out there, there is not a character in this chapter I made up. There will not be any characters in this story that I make up passed a few like, Bar Wench 1, Elf in Chair and Ranger in the Background 5.   
  
In the Appendicies it says of Finduilas, "But it seemed to men she withered in the guarded city, as a flower or seaweed vales set upon barren rock. The shadow in the east filled her with horror, and she turned her eyes ever south to the sea that she missed." For the sake of this story I'm taking liberties in the interperation of her death. Such liberties will be dotted throughout the story because I was challenged (sorta) to make Denethor likeable and I will (sorta) damnit! But for those of you who like to boo and hiss at him, don't worry, you will certainly get your chance because I'm not straying TOO far from canon. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 5  
  
Denethor was not sure if he hated the gulls that flew into port with the ships bearing his sons home from Dol Amroth or not. They reminded him of his late wife, once he had loved them for that, now he hated the reminder for the pain it brought to his heart.   
  
Today, though, he would tolerate them for they accompanied the ship bearing his sons home from Dol Amroth. His boys had been gone four months and though their uncle and grandfather had made sure plenty of letters had been sent, Denethor was impatient to have his children back with him, especially his little one.  
  
"Papa!"  
  
The happy shout made Denethor look up. He caught sight of a flash of dark hair in the direction of the bow before it disappeared.   
  
It was like Faramir, Denethor thought, to be so full of energy and life. Relief swept through him. When Imrahil had left at the start of the summer, taking Boromir and Faramir with him to enjoy the Dol Amroth sands, Faramir had still been far too thin and tired very easily.   
  
It had been hard on Denethor to be without his sons all that time but their letters spoke of naught but joy so Denethor could hardly begrudge them the trip. Maybe…Perhaps next year it would not pain him so much…Denethor sighed, no, he would not fool himself. He knew that he had stepped about the soil of Dol Amroth for the last time.   
  
Imrahil had sent letters detailing Faramir's improving health once a week so, logically, Denethor knew Faramir was fine, healthy and thriving in the sea air as Imrahil had said he would. His heart, though, had always feared for the child. He could not help it. It was all he could do not to fill his letters to Faramir with reminders to wear warm clothing in the evenings and get enough rest and so on. Denethor knew the boy's relatives would take good care of him, for the loved him also, but the worrying did not stop.   
  
His heart lightened a great deal when a bundle of energy topped with excited grey eyes and a mop of sea blown hair flew down the ramp of the vessel and into his arms with a happy cry of, "Papa!"   
  
Denethor caught his child up in his arms and hugged him tight, pressing a kiss to the wind whipped hair that was faintly salty from the sea spray as Faramir's happy chatter filled his ears. "Slow down, little one, let me look at you. Where is your brother?"  
  
Faramir allowed himself to be set down, grinning impishly and looking back at the boat. Denethor chuckled softly, and ruffled his son's damp hair as Boromir wobbled down the ramp. Faramir, he knew, was likely to have spent the trip racing around the boat, pestering the sailors and being reminded not to lean too far over the railing to watch the waves. Boromir was likely to have spent the trip leaning over said railing losing his breakfast.   
  
"Boromir does not feel well," Faramir told their father as Boromir joined them, still a bit green and scowling. "Grandfather says he did not inherit proper sea legs."   
  
Had Boromir not looked so miserable Denethor would have laughed. He did permit himself a small chuckle after he greeted his eldest with a hug, which Boromir did not duck away from for once. "Not everyone is made to enjoy sailing, little one. Your uncle and grandfather tried, in vain, to make a sailor out of me when I first courted your mother. The only time I was not ill I fell overboard and nearly drowned. Your grandfather had to haul me out by the collar."   
  
Boromir managed a chuckle, his colour returning quickly now that his feet were upon solid ground. Faramir giggled and leaned his head against his father, his hand curling in the fabric of his robes. Denethor touched his dark head gently and Faramir smiled up at him.   
  
"Father, is that my…" Boromir began, looking over to where two horses were being led out of the stables.  
  
"Yes, that is the horse the King Theoden saw fit to gift you with and yes, you may ride him," Denethor replied. "I suspect you have been riding your uncle's horses all summer as it is."   
  
Boromir did not blush but looked defiant. They had clashed over this, as they very rarely did, for Boromir wished to ride outside the city, as he would have to, and without guards, which Denethor would not allow. A trip to Rohan, and the freedom of their plains, had sparked this desire within him, but in Gondor it was too dangerous for the Heir of the Steward to roam about without guards, as Boromir longed for.  
  
"And you, little one, shall ride with me, if it is to your liking," Denethor said, looking down at his son.   
  
Faramir beamed at the prospect. His uncle had taken him riding often during the summer, well, often once he was strong enough again, but his father could rarely do so, and always with the company of his guard. Faramir understood why but he sometimes wished it was not so.  
  
"I suppose that means you are not adverse to it," Denethor said with a chuckle, his hand still resting atop Faramir's head.   
  
"No, father!" Faramir replied. "Not at all."  
  
"Good," Denethor said as they moved to the horses, his hand on Faramir's shoulder, which he now saw was not as thin as when the boy had left. Boromir walked swiftly towards his horse.   
  
Denethor chuckled. Boromir was in such a hurry to grow up and become a warrior. In but five years it would be so and what was five years? Faramir was just past his fifth year and he seemed so very young still, so very new. What would he do when this bold, brash son of his was one of the soldiers he sent out to battle? What would he do when his dear child found it was not all glory as children dreaming of battle so often believe?  
  
Denethor was very proud of Boromir's ambitions and knew that both his sons would have to become warriors, as nearly all sons of Gondor did. That did not mean he did not fear for them. He had lost sleep worrying about Boromir's overzealous nature and his concern for Faramir when he would have to become a warrior for the child had a gentle soul, like his wife, and he did not want to rob him of that.   
  
He knew well what responsibility he and his children had for Gondor and what that meant of them but they were his children. And the thought that one day either of his children could meet their end upon some stricken field…  
  
He hugged Faramir tightly as the boy was passed up into his arms upon the horse. Faramir's smile grew, for he did not sense his father's anxiety for the coming years, and he kissed his father's chin, happy for the attention and happy, as much as he loved Dol Amroth, to be home again.   
  
Denethor grinned at him, relaxing somewhat. They were his children and they would stay so for years yet, if not enough years for his heart. And his little one was in no hurry to grow, that he knew, Faramir was content just to be for now, and Denethor was glad of it.   
  
When they reached the stable of the sixth circle and Denethor reached up to take Faramir from the horse, the boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck securely and nuzzled his face against his neck. Denethor took the hint, settling Faramir in his arms so he could carry him.   
  
Denethor did not mind it, was, in fact, glad to be able to hold his youngest close for a longer time. It was good to know that he had been missed too, as was evident by the way Faramir clinged to him. The boy had not, Denethor realized now, been away from both his parents for so long a time before, and though he had family who loved him dearly in Dol Amroth, it was not the same.  
  
"Are you coming to my study with me, little one?" Denethor asked.  
  
Faramir nodded against his father's neck and Denethor looked at his eldest. "What of you Boromir?"  
  
"I wish to go bathe and change," Boromir replied, looking world's better after the ride through Minas Tirith. The salt of the sea still in his clothing was starting to itch, though, for he had been thoroughly doused with it when leaning over the railing so as to not sully the deck.   
  
Denethor chuckled; he suspected Boromir's reasons and knew them well. He truly made a pitiful sailor, something his wife, who took to the sea as easily as her brother, had found much mirth in.   
  
Denethor set Faramir down once they reached the Citadel, for the boy had begun to squirm, sure now that his father was staying with him for longer. He did keep a hold of his father's hand though, and climbed into his lap when Denethor sat down in the only comfortable chair in the room, an overstuffed armchair next to the fireplace.   
  
"Did you have a good summer, Faramir?" Denethor asked, wondering at the solemn expression on the boy's face.   
  
"Oh yes, Papa!" Faramir's face light up with a grin. "It was wonderful. Uncle and grandfather would not let me do much at first but when I was well it was wonderful."  
  
"I am very glad to hear that, little one," Denethor said. "So tell me of your adventures, and I am sure you and your brother had plenty. How did Dol Amroth treat my boys?"   
  
"Dol Amroth was different without Mama," Faramir reported quietly. "It made me sad sometimes."  
  
"Ah, little one," Denethor murmured, understanding Faramir's sudden stillness now and holding his youngest close and pressing a kiss to his hair. "I thought you enjoyed your time there."  
  
"I did," Faramir said quickly. "Dol Amroth is…is…"  
  
Denethor saw his wife's love of her homeland in his youngest at that moment and understood, for he loved the white streets of his city. And he wondered, for a moment, what it must be to feel such a kinship with the land of two places, for as much as Denethor saw the sea in his son's eyes, Imrahil said he saw the gleaming white of Minas Tirith and so his little one was a child of both.   
  
"It is special to you," Denethor finished for him, for Faramir could not seem to find the right words.   
  
Faramir nodded, "But I am glad to be home. I missed you."   
  
"And I very dearly missed my sons," Denethor told him, "for the city seems a little greyer without you here with me."  
  
Faramir said nothing but Denethor thought he understood. Denethor felt a slight pang in his heart. He would have kept his boys from learning that the world seemed a little less bright after great loss, if only for a little while longer.  
  
"Papa," Faramir's voice brought Denethor out of his thoughts. He frowned, the boy seemed very hesitant.   
  
"Yes, little one?" Denethor encouraged.  
  
Faramir looked up at his father. "I am worried about Boromir."  
  
Denethor frowned slightly, "Why are you worried about your brother?"  
  
"He is still sad about Mama and…me too, I think," Faramir was frowning in concentration and slight distress. "He is happy in the day but…"  
  
"But?" Denethor prompted when Faramir fell silent.  
  
Faramir shook his head. "Not supposed to tell. I promised I would not tell uncle."  
  
"I am not your uncle," Denethor pointed out.  
  
"Same thing," Faramir replied miserably.   
  
"Faramir, if there is something wrong with your brother you must tell me for his sake," Denethor told him gently. "It is not right to break a promise but sometimes, so to help a person, you must."   
  
Denethor thought Faramir's expression was rather tragic and his voice was very small. "He cries at night…I hear him and I do not know what to do!"  
  
Denethor sighed, not surprised but dismayed nonetheless. He knew his eldest grieved still but would rarely except comfort, and both Denethor and Imrahil had tried to speak more than once to him only to be met coldly. He thought himself grown up and therefore thought he had to hide his grief. It was an awkward situation and it pained Denethor to know that his eldest would have, if he was aggrieved before, confided in his mother.   
  
Now though it was her passing that was the source of the pain and fear.   
  
"I could not just listen to him crying, Papa," Faramir said quietly, sniffling himself. "He needs more hugs."  
  
"I know, dear heart," Denethor sighed and Faramir cuddled close to his father. Faramir's grief was so much easier to soothe because he did not seek to hide it from his father. From the general public, yes, Denethor had noticed that even when the boy was ill, but not from his father.   
  
Boromir though…comfort could not be forced upon him but…Denethor sighed. "Faramir, would you do a duty for me?"  
  
Faramir looked up at his father in confusion at the change in subject. Denethor smiled gently, "When you think your brother seems sad can you give him a big hug?"  
  
Faramir frowned, hesitating, "Not supposed to get out of bed."  
  
"For this you may," Denethor told him and paused, briefly debating, before continuing. "Your brother believes he is too old for hugs."  
  
"But he hugs me," Faramir began, then understanding dawned and his face light up in a grin. "I can help!"  
  
"Yes, but if you ever feel sad, like your brother does, you should come to me, little one," Denethor told him gently. "I will speak to your brother also, for such sorrow should not be kept inside."  
  
Faramir nodded solemnly then quite suddenly threw his arms around his father's neck and hugged him tightly, shocking Denethor, whose eyes teared at the words of his youngest child. "I can hug you too, Papa."  
  
"Oh child," Denethor managed around the lump in his throat. "I know, my little one. I know. You make my life very happy, Faramir. You and your brother…you make me very happy."  
  
"I am glad," Faramir murmured, his words muffled as his face pressed against his father's shoulder. "You are not coming to Dol Amroth with us again, are you? I heard grandfather say so."  
  
"No, child, I will not," Denethor told him, his voice gentle. "It makes me sad too, being there. For me, the hurt is too great.."   
  
"Does it ever go away?" Faramir asked and his voice trembled.   
  
Too perceptive, the child was too perceptive, Denethor thought, and knew he could not lie to Faramir and say that the hurt would go away, fade, yes, but not disappear. He should have spoken with both his sons about this sooner, and they should have had proper time to grieve. Life, however, did not seem to wish to make things easy for any of them.   
  
"No, Faramir, it does not go away," Denethor told him quietly. "But it gets better. The sadness fades with time."  
  
"Will you tell Boromir that too?" Faramir asked.  
  
"Yes, I will," Denethor promised, kissing the top of Faramir's head.  
  
For a time, they sat together quietly, and Denethor began to think Faramir fell asleep. It would not be unusual, it was a long journey and he did not doubt Faramir had spent all of it racing about the ship. He was startled when his son spoke up again, quite suddenly.   
  
"When we were in Dol Amroth I figured out what our names mean," Faramir began. For a moment Denethor was confused, wondering at the change in subject, but the child had to have had many adventures during the summer, and Denethor did very much want to hear them.  
  
"Oh?" Denethor said, smiling. Faramir slid back down so he was sitting in his father's lap, and Denethor put his arms around his child.   
  
"Boromir was very pleased to be named after a great warrior," Faramir said, stalling. "And it pleased him that his name means faithful jewel. He thought it was a soldier's name."  
  
"That does not surprise me," Denethor chuckled. "Did you figure out your name sake too, little one?"   
  
"Yes, Faramir was a King's son," Faramir replied hesitantly.  
  
"When you were born your mother thought you were a very princely child and talk had began about what would happen to Dol Amroth if your uncle did not have children," Denethor told him, failing to mention Imrahil had not looked like he would be settling down at that point, and had blatantly denied that he would himself. Then, of course, he had by chance met a woman who would become his wife, and that had changed everything. "It looked like, for a time, that you might be named his Heir for lack of his own children, and would one day be Prince of Dol Amroth. Your mother thought you should have the name of a prince."  
  
"Oh," Faramir said, shifting uncomfortably.  
  
"What is the matter, Faramir? Do you not like your name anymore? It was not what we had originally thought to name you but your mother took a sudden liking to the name and in truth I did not have the courage to dissuade her while she was still heavy with you," Denethor said chuckling.  
  
"It is not that I do not like my name it is just..." Faramir, to Denethor's horror, looked very close to tears. "I do not wish to be merely adequate!"  
  
"Whatever do you mean my little one?" Denethor asked gently, truly not following his train of thought.  
  
"Mir means jewel and phar means suffice so Boromir is loyal but I am merely good enough!" Faramir said, sniffling.  
  
"Oh Faramir." Denethor hugged the boy close. "I do not know by what device your name sake was named but you have all the words mixed up."  
  
"I do?" Faramir asked. "How?"  
  
"You, my son, were...born under a hunter's moon," Denethor told him. "Faras is the root of your name, it means hunt. So Boromir is my faithful jewel and you, dear child, are my jewel of the hunt."  
  
It was a near truth but Denethor was not now, nor did he ever wish to, explain that Faramir was not born but conceived under a hunter's moon, and rather memorably conceived at that upon a beach on Dol Amroth. The name had been his mother's fancy although during the birth she had also said it was to remind Denethor he would be sleeping in his study for the rest of his days.  
  
A similar threat had been issued during Boromir's birth, though that threat had been accompanied by his gentle wife throwing a vase at him. Being pregnant made her rather more…hostile. Boromir's birth had been far more taxing than Faramir's though. Their third child had had a less memorable conception, neither could mark it, but the loss of the babe had been remembered. They had never named the babe who would have been their daughter.   
  
"No son of mine is simply adequate," Denethor told Faramir quietly, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. "You are very special and very much loved, always know that."  
  
"I love you too, Papa," Faramir said, kissing his father on the cheek.   
  
Denethor smiled at him, "Now, shall we find that brother of yours? He will be wondering what happened to us."  
  
"YES!" Faramir yelled, content again, his troubles solved for the moment. He forgot how close he was to Denethor's ear. Faramir, Denethor reflected with a wince as he heard a slight ringing, was normally more mindful of that than Boromir had been.   
  
They found Boromir coming out of their rooms. Denethor let Faramir down because he began to squirm impatiently at the sight of his brother and watched him run to greet his eldest. Denethor's breath caught in his throat when, once Faramr got within a few feet of his brother, he launched himself at Boromir, trusting his big brother to catch him.   
  
One of these times, Denthor thought in panic, Someone will not catch him and he will be hurt.  
  
Boromir caught him though, laughing even as he staggered back from the weight of his little brother. Faramir tended to do such things with Denethor and Imrahil too. The child was so trusting…but Denethor assumed it was normal for one of his age. He was only just six, after all.  
  
"I will watch Faramir until supper if you would like," Boromir offered, knowing their father had to have work to do, he always did and he had taken time off to be there when they arrived. "Someone needs to make sure he unpacks and finds places for his treasures instead of setting them all on his desk like last time."  
  
Faramir scowled at him as Boromir hoisted him into a more secure position in his arms. Denethor smiled somewhat sadly, seeing the way Boromir held his brother, just a little more tightly than he would have done before, as if he was afraid Faramir would suddenly be torn from him.   
  
"Thank you, Boromir," Denethor said, ruffling Faramir's dark hair, an action Boromir would not allow any longer. "I will come by before dinner so that you may show me what you have brought home. Nothing to big and noisy I hope? Your grandfather did not pack any gulls in your suitcases as he threatened, did he?"  
  
Faramir giggled and Boromir grinned. "No gulls, but there was a special seashell he and Faramir found..."  
  
"You can hear the sea in it, Papa!" Faramir exclaimed in excitement, wriggling so much Boromir had to put him down.  
  
"So you brought home the sea instead? We shall be flooded, keep it in your rooms!" Denethor teased.   
  
"Now you are being silly, Papa. The sea should go in the gardens so we can have a close place to swim," Faramir replied.   
  
Denethor snorted in amusement and Boromir looked surprised. Faramir just grinned impishly.  
  
"My Lord Steward," a voice came, interrupting the little family. A member of the Tower Guard stood nearby, looking hesitant to interrupt. "I apologize, my lord, but the Lord of Lossarnach has arrived and is asking to speak to you."  
  
"Very well," Denethor told him, not pleased. The man was supposed to arrive tomorrow. He looked at his boys fondly. "Put the sea in the bathtub for now and we will figure out what to so with it when I get back."  
  
Faramir giggled. Boromir smiled and shook his head at the rare mood his father was in. Denethor was rarely so playful, and he had definitely not been so since their mother had died.   
  
Faramir was leaning against his side and Boromir put an arm around his little brother, smiling as he leaned closer. Faramir was such a tactile child, Boromir thought, but he did not mind. It made him feel less lonely, holding him when he wished to be held. It was his job to protect his little brother and he would, always, so he had sworn to his own heart. 

* * *

When Denethor peeked into his sons' room that night he found them asleep together. Boromir was curled around his little brother, his face nearly hidden in Faramir's dark hair. Nearly hidden, for Denethor could see the faint remnants of tears on one barely exposed cheek.   
  
He entered the room, dark save for the lamp that burned low in one corner, and laid his own light, a rather ornate candle stick from his study, on the table. His face was soft as he looked at his children.  
  
With a gentle hand, he brushed Boromir's sun lightened hair off his face, leaned down, and kissed his brow. Boromir gave a soft sigh, and then buried his head against the pillow and in Faramir's hair.   
  
Denethor drew back to find two sleepy grey eyes looking up at him. Faramir smiled slightly at his father then yawned hugely.  
  
Denethor put his finger to his lips, for Boromir would be sorely embarrassed if he woke to find his father there. He bent down and kissed Faramir's brow, leaning over to whisper in his ear, "I love you, little one. Now go to sleep for tomorrow will come early if you do not."  
  
Faramir nodded, closing his eyes and snuggling further into Boromir's arms. He felt the touch of his father's hand on his cheek for a moment before he drifted into sleep.

* * *

It was not uncommon, in the coming months, for Lords of the Land to find, when they brought matters to their Steward, that a dark haired child had the run of Denethor's study. Faramir could often be found, when he was not dodging his brother's footsteps, laying on his stomach by his father's desk drawing or reading one of the thin story books that had been brought with him from Dol Amroth.   
  
It was not unusual either to find him sitting in his father's lap listening intently as his father explained some matter the boy had inquired about. On one memorable occasion one of his Captains had found them playing with Faramir's toy soldiers, who were lined up along the edges of the large desk. An inquiry as to why was answered by Faramir saying they were guarding his Papa's paperwork.   
  
It was a change that many, though they chuckled about it, were glad for. Denethor had grown colder and much more grim in the passing of his wife, and more so during Faramir's illness and absence during his recovery. The child, serious and solemn in public as duty required him to be, something he understood even then, was still a child and one of the only two who could make Denethor smile still.   
  
Boromir's spirits seemed to lift, too, after a time. And as life began to settle back to normal for the small family, his night tears ceased, though he still seemed to cling to his brother for moments longer than he would have before.  
  
It was not long, though, before Faramir found himself crawling into bed with his brother, shaking with grief and fear, after waking from his sleep in tears. When Boromir questioned him about it Faramir could not explain why he had woken so, only that his dreams were dark.  
  
What made them so, he could not recall.

* * *

Author's Notes: Yes, I'm back. School went...well, it's over now, and I don't have to think about it for four months, so I'm good. And I never have to take another french class in my life, which is a cause for celebration!  
  
The next update will be coming at some point, hopefully soon, but I have two more stories in other fandoms that need updated before this one has a turn again, so it won't be immediately.   
  
And when I do update there will be a jump ahead in time. How much time, I'll leave to be found out in the next update, but there will be a rather large jump. I'll never get it done otherwise!  
  
Thanks yous, as always, go to Mandi, the super-dee-duper beta who is the reason I make sense. And this time they also go to Amanda, who is not Mandi but another person entirely, for, among other things, not eating me cat. I realize I remembered her name, but still, thank you for refraining.   
  
Also, there is a distinct lack of our dearly beloved King-to-be in this chapter. Worry not, he shall return. Pun blatantly intended. 


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.  
  
Author's Note: Just so everyone knows, there is a jump in time here. Faramir is now 11.  
_  
Chapter 5  
  
"Faramir, for Eru's sake, sit up straight!" Denethor commanded, pressing two fingers to his temple and not even looking at his youngest son. "And stop your chattering. If you have nothing worthwhile to say, which I deem you do not, keep silent!"  
  
Faramir ceased speaking immediately. His bottom lip trembled for just a moment before he composed himself. If not for the hurt in his grey eyes, which he could not hide, not even Boromir would have known he was upset.  
  
But Boromir did know and his grey eyes flashed as he looked from his little brother to his father. "He was just telling me of his day, father!"  
  
Denethor glared at his eldest and Boromir glared right back. At sixteen he was as bold and as brass as he had been all his life but now had proper training as well.  
  
Technically, Boromir was already an officer in Gondor's army, though he had not seen combat yet. He was home on leave for a few weeks before he set out on his first mission, having been amongst the most recent graduates from the academy in Lossarnach. There was an army academy in Minis Tirith as well but it was traditional for the higher Lords of Gondor to receive their training in a city other than their own.  
  
Denethor would have been sharper with Boromir but he was so proud of his eldest and had the concern only a parent could about his child going into a situation where he could actually see action within a few days. That fear alone made him much softer toward his eldest child. The feeling of just in case had come to settle over his heart.  
  
Faramir, though, was safe. He would not see combat for years and, if Denethor could arrange it, he would not see it for longer than his brother. Boromir had always been eager for battle, Faramir had not, and Denethor counted that a blessing.  
  
But he would see it and that worried Denethor because Faramir had proved to not be terribly able to adapt to using a sword. It was not that he was bad with handling a blade, indeed, Denethor had rarely seen such grace in a swordsman at such a young age, Faramir handled his blade as if it was a partner in an elaborate dance, but pit him against another of his age and his rear soon found the ground.  
  
That would not do, not at all, and when the master of arms had reported it to Denethor that very day, he could not help but imagine his youngest not surviving his first patrol. If the dulled blade of one of his peers could so quickly and so repeatedly find his throat what would the weapons of his enemies do?  
  
It was out of these fears and on top of headache that had been raging for days, ever since his use of the stone hidden up in the tower of Ecthelion, that he was taking supper with two loud, energized boys.  
  
"Faramir would do better to pick up a sword more often than spend all his time among the scrolls of the library. Gondor has no need for loremasters, she has a need for soldiers," Denethor replied coolly, "such as you are becoming, Boromir."  
  
Faramir flushed bright red. He knew the arms master was not entirely pleased with him but he did try so very hard. He had even managed to get himself to stop thinking about the time when it would not be hay-stuffed dummies they practised on and when real steel would replace the wooden blades they used on each other, but flesh and bone being cut through by sharp swords. Thinking of such things made the bottom fall out of his stomach so he had resolutely stopped considering it and pushed himself even harder.  
  
It had yielded little result. He truly tried when he was sparring with the other Nobles of his age but he felt like such a mouse compared to them. He was the smallest of his age that the arms master instructed and the other boys seem to over power him so quickly!  
  
No one spoke as they finished their meal. Denethor's mind quickly turned to other things and he suppressed a shudder. He had resolved to use the cursed stone that sat in Ecethlion's tower again.  
  
He had chanced upon it some years ago, when Finduilas had still been alive, when Faramir had only just started walking, and therefore getting into everything. He had, therefore, made sure everything breakable, or anything that could hurt the child, was stored away safely. Boromir had been much the same, but Faramir's curiosity tended to take him farther than his brother and where Boromir had always made a loud fuss where ever he went, especially if he saw an object he fancied, Faramir stayed relatively quiet.  
  
He had known what the stone globe was, of course, his father had told him of it, but he had never seen it before and once he had, checking the items taken to the tower out of the grasp of curious little fingers, he wished he had not. The thought of it dwelt in the back of his mind, always there never ceasing, but he ignored it, for the most part, and it did not torment him much.  
  
But after time... Finduilas had died, Faramir had stopped tumbling into trunks curious to see what was inside, Boromir was becoming a soldier and the shadow had started to grow on their land. It became more and more likely that troops would come back with a man or two less, not vast losses, but too much and they were often green recruits who came back upon funeral biers.  
  
And all too soon he knew it could be his son who came home to him in such a manner.  
  
Boromir was a good fighter and he would make a fine Captain one day, Denethor knew, but he was still young and too bold for his own good. It would take a few battles to bleed that from him. If he did not get himself killed.  
  
So Denethor would consult that wretched stone to try and save Gondor's sons, to try and keep his own safe, though it cost him greatly to do so.  
  
"Father?" Boromir's voice, quieter than normal, broke through his thoughts. "May we be excused? I would like to see if I can aid Faramir in his swordplay."  
  
"Very well," Denethor replied, pleased with his eldest for the offer. At least he knew Boromir did not lack compassion, as some who lusted for war could.  
  
His eyes slid to Faramir, who had been very still and silent for the rest of the meal. Denethor frowned. His son's face was very pale as it had been too often of late. "You would do well to learn all you can from your brother. He shall make a very fine soldier."  
  
Boromir glowed with pride. Faramir glanced up, shadows in his eyes, "Yes, father."  
  
Denethor watched as the two brothers removed themselves from the dining room. He sighed. His youngest was miserable, he knew it, but he could not understand why.  
  
Nor could he let his thoughts linger on the matter. No, if he was to use that cursed stone again. For that he had to be strong. Boromir, he knew, would look after his brother.

* * *

"You have improved, brother mine," Boromir said, laying his sword aside. They had not practiced much, for Boromir could tell quickly that Faramir was distracted and, well, it was not as if their father would know they had not even broken a sweat. "Your style is good, different than I would have expected, but it suits you better I suppose."  
  
"The master at arms said so," Faramir agreed, permitting himself a very small smile.  
  
"Has he been instructing you in it?" Boromir asked, a bit surprised. The arms master... well, he was a man very much like Boromir himself, he could recognize the use in such a fighting style but teaching it himself, well, it would be like teaching a cat to do laundry.  
  
Faramir shook his head. "He corrects me and... well, when we have to partner to spar he arranges for me to partner with him or his assistant."  
  
Boromir nodded, as a slow blush crept over Faramir's cheeks. The master at arms and his assistant, a young man unable to serve on active duty because of a head injury he had sustained on his first campaign, could control their movements well enough to so not completely overpower the still small and slim boy, who did not have the girth of muscle of his peers yet.  
  
"Who has been tutoring you then?" Boromir questioned.  
  
Faramir looked away from his brother. "Estel."  
  
"Ah." Boromir felt his face tighten unconsciously.  
  
He knew about the man who visited his little brother in his dreams. Faramir kept nothing from him, though he had a few secrets from his brother, or, at least, things that he would not mention to the boy until he was older.  
  
He was wary of this Estel. Oh, he knew the man posed no threat to his little brother, was even a good force in his life, but he did not trust him in the same way as he did not trust old poems and wizards and the vapid, giggling, wretched, court ladies that had started to take interest in him for themselves or their daughters.  
  
"He showed me how to use a bow, the last time we met," Faramir said quietly. "He means me no harm, Boromir."  
  
Boromir smiled at his little brother fondly. "I know. Tell me, where does this Estel hail from, again?"  
  
Faramir shook his head, "The North is all he has ever said and he is a man, though he once lived amongst Elves."  
  
Boromir forced himself not to frown, he trusted Elves less than wizards, for at least he had seen one of those! He and Faramir would never agree upon this, he knew, for his brother was fascinated by the tales of both and so he changed the topic, bluntly. "You and father have not seemed to get on well since I have been home."  
  
Faramir's face dropped. "No, we have not."  
  
Boromir hated the looked upon his brother's face, but he knew they would end up discussing this sooner or later and when they did he could do something to change it. "And why is that?"  
  
Faramir shrugged, looking miserable. "I have told him..."  
  
Boromir waited, but nothing more was said. He sighed and hugged his brother with one arm about his shoulders. "Shall we go visit mother's garden?"  
  
Faramir said nothing, but nodded, and followed Boromir from the practice yard through the winding hallways and then, a heavy oak door was opened and, with a feel of suddenness about it, they walked into a garden. The two brothers made their way unerringly to a stone bench. Faramir sat, Boromir wandered aimlessly in a circle for a moment.  
  
"It is more overgrown each year," Boromir mumbled, eyes and heart aching to behold the flowers choked with weeds.  
  
"That is what happens when no one tends to a garden," Faramir muttered. "Why do we always come here?"  
  
"Because father never does," Boromir replied. "Nor anyone else. Besides, mother never liked ordered flower beds much. Once you and I mixed in just a few bulbs of yellow irises in with the bed of blue irises. She thought it was wonderful."  
  
"They still bloom in spring," Faramir said quietly. "But I do not remember planting them."  
  
"You were very small," Boromir allowed, with a slight grin. "I think you spent most of your time dumping dirt into my hair."  
  
Faramir allowed himself a small smile and Boromir sat beside him on the cold stone. "What did you tell father?"  
  
Faramir shrugged gracelessly and turned away, his voice low. "I told him... I told him I did not wish to be a soldier, that if I could I would become a scholar of some sort, a lore master or historian perhaps."  
  
"Brother, you know we..." Boromir began.  
  
"I know we have a duty to our people and I know I must become a soldier," Faramir snapped. "I know. I have always known and I would die for Gondor, just as you. I would... I would even kill for her but... I just wish... I wish it were different, sometimes. Do you not wish that sometimes?"  
  
Boromir swallowed, speaking past the lump in his throat. "Yes, Faramir, sometimes I do, though I suppose I would still be a soldier, if I were not the Steward's son. Only sometimes I feel that others look at me and wonder if it is by grace of birth or skill that I am given praise and made into an officer."  
  
"It is by skill. Those who see you fight know that," Faramir murmured, moving closer, leaning his head against his brother's shoulder. Boromir sighed with his own worries and put his arm around his little brother.  
  
"I wonder of it sometimes. Do you think they will follow me, my orders?" Boromir asked.  
  
Faramir snorted. "I know you are a good soldier and you will be a good leader. Father says it is in your blood. Maybe they just need to see it?"  
  
"Perhaps," Boromir chuckled, and squeezed Faramir tighter for a moment. "If it is in my blood it is in yours too, brother mine. Father knows it."  
  
Faramir grimaced a bit and Boromir's eyes softened. "Faramir, father knows you do not wish to be a soldier, he has known it for a long time but he also knows you will do what you must, as we all do."  
  
"Why is he cross with me then?" Faramir asked, his young face creasing just slightly in worry and frustration. "I cannot think of what I have done to make him so..."  
  
"Snappy, bullheaded and on occasion simply mean," Boromir supplied. "He works overmuch and can take it out on those around him, sometimes, I do not think he means to hurt you."  
  
"He may not mean to but he still does!" Faramir exclaimed, shrugging off his brother's arm and rising to pace for a few moments. "Am I to just accept that? I miss him, Boromir. He never used to be like this. It is not fair. I want my papa back!"  
  
Boromir felt his heart clench. If only, he thought, their father understood what he was doing, for Boromir truly did not think he did. "Faramir...these things change with time. He has too...He cannot..."  
  
"I know!" Faramir interrupted, wiping angrily at his eyes, willing away the tears he felt building. "I know that he is busy. I know that we have roles to fulfill. I know that he is not like other fathers and we are not like other sons but I miss him and it hurts!"  
  
"Brother..." Boromir sighed. He stood and went to his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder. Faramir jerked away. Boromir frowned and put his hand back slowly. Faramir did not jerk away again but neither did he look at him.  
  
"I am not saying that what father does...the situation all three of us are in...I am not saying it is right but..." Boromir bit his lip, all too aware of how hollow his words had to sound. "But that is simply how it is and...what we cannot change we must bear as best we can. Father loves you, you know, very much, and so do I, brother mine."  
  
Faramir made no answer, keeping his eyes to the ground. For a long time they remained silent. Boromir felt awkward. He had not the word's for this! Finally, he could take it no longer.  
  
"Did you not tell me you had some old, boring, dusty book to show me this morning?" Boromir asked, desperately looking for a distraction. Faramir would only dwell on this, and Boromir was unsure there was anything to dwell on, save that their father overworked himself.  
  
Faramir knew what his brother was doing but... he had found something he wanted to show his brother. "I know you are not very interesting in it..."  
  
Boromir chuckled and rose, pulling Faramir up with him. "Nonsense. Come, show me this treasure of yours."

* * *

Faramir peeked into the dim of the Steward's study, a book clutched against his chest, not knowing why he felt scared as he had done this for years. His brother had departed to a tavern with a few friends and he knew soon his father would expect him to be in bed.  
  
Denethor did not read him a story any more, he had long outgrown that, but they still found time together before Faramir retired for the night, simply to speak to each other, for all too often it was for only that short time they saw each other, for both were busy with separate tasks. Often all they spoke of was Faramir's day, how he had spent the hours, what he had learned or they would talk of books, and occasionally his father would take a book of his own shelves and pass it to Faramir.  
  
His father did not look up when he entered but kept his eyes upon his work, a hand pressing hard against his forehead. "Father?"  
  
Still, he did not look up. "Not now, Faramir."  
  
Faramir's face fell, this was their time, no matter how busy his father was they always had this little time together. "But... father..."  
  
"I said not now!" Denethor snapped, shooting his son a look that made the eleven year old shiver. "Must you always be such a pest?! Can you not see I have more important things to do than cater to your whims? Begone, boy, I do not wish for your presence!"  
  
Faramir's chin trembled and he bit his lip hard to keep from spilling the tears that welled in his eyes. He stood frozen for a moment, but his father said nothing more to him, only looked down to his work as if Faramir was not even there.  
  
He left and sought the safety of his rooms and there wept until he fell into exhausted sleep, vowing not to be such a bother to his father, though he did so love that time that had been theirs alone, for his father was so much everyone's but his.  
  
He did not know that, hours later, Denethor paused in his work and looked up, as if expecting his youngest to walk through the door and dispel the gloomy silence with his happy chatter, as he had done when he was younger. For a moment, his heart ached at what he had done and he nearly rose to go to his son, wanting, suddenly, his presence.  
  
But the boy was asleep, he knew that, and so he turned back to his work, trying to ignore his aching head.

* * *

"Enough, tithen-min, enough," Aragorn said, putting his hand upon Faramir's tense shoulder. "You are improving, but at this pace you will only hurt yourself."  
  
"This is only a dream," Faramir muttered, still holding the bow. "This is all just a dream. What does it matter if I get hurt?"  
  
"I healed you in a dream, remember Faramir?" Aragorn said gently, taking the bow from him firmly.  
  
Faramir looked down and away, his face set. Aragorn got the impression he was trying to be angry. Aragorn was a Ranger though, and nothing if not observant, and he saw the tremble in the proud chin and the tears Faramir fought to hide.  
  
"Faramir," Aragorn sighed softly, and put an arm around Faramir's tense shoulders. "Come, sit down and tell me what is troubling you."  
  
"It is nothing," Faramir mumbled, refusing the look at him. "It is not important."  
  
"If it is upsetting you then it is important to me," Aragorn told him. "I would try to help you, if you will let me."  
  
There was that quiver of his chin again then Faramir threw his arms about Aragorn and buried his face in his tunic. Aragorn was surprised and went his knees to hold the boy close, letting Faramir cry himself out on his shoulder, petting his soft hair gently and shushing his distraught cries.  
  
Eventually the boy quieted and pulled away, rubbing forcefully at his red cheeks, his eyes down, "'M sorry..."  
  
"Shh, tithen-min," Aragorn murmured, brushing his hands away and wiping away the remaining tears gently himself. "There is no shame in it. It helps with the pain, does it not?"  
  
Faramir nodded just a bit but he still looked miserable. Aragorn stood, and put his arm about the boy's shoulder again, guiding him in the direction of a bench. He wanted to pick the child up and carry him there, keeping him safe in his arms, but forced himself not to. Faramir was at a delicate age, as ages were through most of childhood, and Aragorn remembered well the desire not to be babied with too much comfort but the need for some.  
  
"He took it away," Faramir began, leaning against Aragorn. "He took it away! I never see him anymore, he is always busy and... and I miss him! It never used to be like this and I do not know what I did wrong and why did he have to take this away too! It was all there was left..."  
  
"Faramir, Faramir," Aragorn interrupted gently, giving the boy a squeeze. "Shh, calm down, and start from the beginning."  
  
So Faramir told him of the change in his father, in the remoteness and the anger and even the fear Faramir felt when he did something to displease his father, which he was ashamed to feel. He told him of the book he had found and wanting to share it with someone who understood what it was like to treasure it and being turned away, when it was supposed to be their time together.  
  
He spoke and he could not stop. He told Aragorn about being the smallest in the classes with the arms master and how the other boys did not pick on him but that he did not feel part of them and the feeling that he would never grow big enough or strong enough. He told him that he did not want to go to war and that sometimes he wished he were another man's son so he did not have to and the guilt he felt over that because he loved his father, he really did.  
  
And he told him what he had not told anyone else, that he was desperately, desperately afraid for his brother because he was going off to war and Faramir knew he might not come back and what would he do without his Boromir?  
  
Aragorn listened and held him and spoke when he could. He scarcely knew what to do more than Faramir but he could offer some advice and he tried to think of what Elrond would say to him. Mostly, he thought, Faramir wanted someone who could listen to him, for Boromir could but... Boromir's advice was coloured by his love of their father and Faramir could not tell him he worried Boromir would not come home, he just could not!  
  
Faramir cried and tried to pull away and yelled when Aragorn would not let him and finally sagged against his shoulder, weeping bitterly until his throat was sore and his nose itched and his eyes felt vaguely of burning. Aragorn looked at him and felt pity but knew too that a wound not fully cleansed would only fester again.  
  
"And what else, Faramir?" he asked quietly, stroking his back gently. Faramir looked away and sniffled but his voice did not waver as it had and he seemed almost calm.  
  
"I keep having a dream. I just remember... darkness and feeling..." Faramir shivered. "I do not know what to say, the words... I never really remember them but they..."  
  
He looked away and his head dropped. "They scare me."  
  
Aragorn nearly froze but controlled his reaction so Faramir did not notice, lulled by the hand rubbing his back and exhausted from his tears. Frantically, Aragorn cast his mind about for an explanation but Elrond had taught him how to shield the boy from his nightmares and he had slept easy for the past few weeks.  
  
"You know well how powerful dreams may be," Aragorn assured him quietly. "It does not surprise me that you should fear dark dreams, all feel fear when they are visited by such things."  
  
It seemed to comfort Faramir somewhat to know that he was not alone in this and he snuggled closer to Aragorn's comforting warmth, tired and past caring that he was too old to be cuddled. Aragorn held him close.  
  
"Still, I shall guard your dreams, if you would like," Aragorn offered.  
  
Faramir looked up at him with red rimmed grey eyes. "You would?"  
  
"I will. I will find you in my dreams for darkness does not touch either of us here," Aragorn told him. It was true, nightmares were dispelled when their dreams merged.  
  
Faramir gave a soft sigh. "Thank you."  
  
"You are more then welcome, tithen-min," Aragorn told him. "More than welcome."  
  
Even as he said it Aragorn felt a sense of guilt. He could protect Faramir for a time, yes, but a Ranger found sleep when he could get it and sooner or later he would be kept from his rest, leaving Faramir vulnerable. It should not matter though, he thought, for if it were his nightmares that caused Faramir's, as he supposed, then they would not haunt him while Aragorn remained awake.  
  
He did not understand why, then, that a sense of foreboding lingered in his heart.  
_

* * *

  
Author's Notes: Thanks, as always, go to dear, dear Mandi for beta'ing this and sorry it's a bit late, my computer ate some pages and I had to rewrite them!  
  
There's so many things to talk about in this chapter, I don't know where to start. First off, I guess, I'm looking for feedback on Faramir in this chapter. Is he believable? I based his behaviour on what I see of my younger brother and his friends, who seem far moodier than I was at that age.  
  
I also have far too many theories on the palantir and Denethor's use of it. If you want an in depth look at that send me an e-mail, otherwise, I think he was overtaxing himself by using it on top of everything else he had to do and that put him in a perpetually bad mood on top of the fact he's not the world's most cheerful guy. I also think, and this will be more evident later, that neither Sauron nor Saurman were obviously doing battle with him while he was using it but that there was a subtle twisting by them on what he would see. Basically, he was in over his head and didn't realize it. Also, whenever Denethor speculates over something involving the palantir it is his theories based on the knowledge he has, not mine.  
  
Also, if you ask me a question in a review I will try to answer it here.  
  
Peekaboo42: Glad you like the interaction, it is a WIP and is going to be rather long, hope you stick around to see it all! I'm planning to do jumps in time quite a bit, but one of the main points of the story is exploring the eventual break down of Denethor's relationship with his sons.  
  
Calriel: Glad you like it so much! I'm rather fond of it myself, even if it does take up so much of my writing time. Yes, it was a typo, I make those often so thank Mandi for making everything readable. You're getting ahead of yourself but eventually Faramir will learn of Aragorn's heritage, if nothing else he'll learn it when Aragorn heals him!  
  
Lirenel: That's one theory of why Faramir is having dark dreams but, remember Elrond did teach Aragorn how to stop Faramir from picking up on those dreams soooo...maybe it is, maybe it isn't! You'll find out soon, I promise. Glad you're liking Denethor, this whole thing started when Mandi said she'd never like him and my muse took it as a challenge. He is a complicated guy, gives me a headache trying to figure him out!  
  
Rosie26: I am still a student. I'm in my first year of University taking Journalism. Believe me, nothing will make you a better writer than constantly havnig articles picked apart by profs who used to be editors for major newspapers. If I saw a paragraph without pencil marks in reporting class I nearly fainted. The story will get darker, but Denethor does love both his children, that just gets muddled up with out things sometimes.  
  
shallindra: I really have to kill Boromir unfortunatly. I am toying with the idea of doing an AU story though where he doesn't die. We'll see if it actually happens.  
  
kurupt emocions: French is the bane of my existance, which is an awful thing to say because it is a beautiful language and, this is the weird part, my mother is a french teacher. She's given up on me by now. I'm glad you like my Denethor. Complicated guy, but not evil, I don't think.  
  
Chibi-Kaz: So it starts. As I said, I'm toying with the idea of an AU like that but it'll have to wait until I have more time.  
  
shie1dmaidenofrohan: I figured there should be something Boromir is really bad at. Besides, adds to the whole army/navy rivalry.  
  
Thanks, again to everyone who reviewed. Hopefully chapter six will be posted with more haste than this was! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Author's notes are at the end of the chapter._  
  
**Chapter 6**  
  
Weeks passed. Faramir ceased visiting his father's study before bed, spending time in the library instead or with Boromir when he was not otherwise occupied. Often, as the night drew later, Denethor wondered at his younger son's absence, missing his presence keenly, but the thought was always fleeting, other concerns consuming him.  
  
Boromir watched as his little brother became more and more withdrawn, as if their father's distance and disappointment drew a grey haze over the rest of Faramir's life. He tried to draw his brother out, he seemed to be the only one who could, but he knew all too soon he would be leaving and felt that he should spend time with the other recruits who would be joining the same company. They would, in part, be his men, after all, and he wanted to be accessible to them from the very first.  
  
Glimpses of the dark dreams continued but Estel, true to his word, worked hard to make sure he was there to shelter his young friend from their touch. His duties interfered but he could minimize that and managed, somehow, to keep Faramir from all but the slightest glimpse of the nightmares. They saw more of each other than they ever had before, often having gone weeks and months without meeting, and Faramir's skills with blade and bow grew swiftly.  
  
But Aragorn did have other duties and, as much as it pained him, sometimes choices had to be made.

* * *

"Boil more water, we will need it," Aragorn ordered, not looking up, trusting his Ranger to see to the tasks.  
  
Halbarad moaned beneath him, his eyes closed, sweat beading from his brow. Aragorn put a hand to his forehead for just a moment, just long enough to let the younger Ranger know he was still with him.  
  
"You will be well, just stay with me. Soon, I will have something to give you for the pain," Aragorn promised, his hand moving again, pressing down on his Ranger's wound, stemming the blood flow.  
  
"I need that needle, Hael!" Aragorn called over his shoulder.  
  
"Boiled, use it," Elladan said, appearing suddenly.  
  
"Elrohir?" Aragorn questioned even as Elladan moved to hold Halbarad still. They could not wait for the brew for pain relief to be made, the Ranger laying chalk white beneath them was losing too much blood too fast.  
  
"Fine, for now, though he cannot move to help," Elladan questioned. "Later, I will have to tend him further, but his needs are not urgent."  
  
Halbarad groaned and would have started up if Elladan had not been holding him securely when Aragorn began stitching the first wound. He swore and bit his lip so hard it bled and finally swallowed greedily what Aragorn could offer for the pain when it was ready, falling into unconsciousness.  
  
Elladan and Aragorn tended to them, Hael, a very young Ranger with very little healing skill, fetching what they needed. Then Elladan went to his brother even as Aragorn remained bent over his Ranger, who was still in danger of being lost to them.  
  
Late into the night he worked, and once or twice spared a regretfully thought for his young friend the dreamer, and prayed that those dreams stayed bright that night. There was nothing for it though, for to rest now and guard Faramir's dreams was to give up Halbarad's life, and that was a trade he did not even entertain making.

* * *

Faramir woke with a gasping sob, his eyes red and swollen and the bed clothes wrapped around him in such a manner he felt as if he were tied up. His throat ached it was so dry and he struggled to breathe.  
  
The darkness of his room was suffocating. He needed light but tripped in his rush to light a lamp. Dazed, crying, shaking and unable to stop, he found himself laying face down on the cold stone floor.  
  
A feeling of utter isolation washed over him, drowning him, and he suddenly needed contact with some other living being, just to assure himself another still existed. Just to know he was not so alone as he felt.  
  
He got to his feet, got to the door and stood clutching the door knob. He wanted to go to Boromir but... tomorrow Boromir left and he left early and Faramir did not want to wake him. Dizzying thoughts raced through his spinning mind. What ifs rang in his head, for a soldier needed not a lack of sleep to distract him.  
  
Faramir trembled, a sob bubbling up and he nearly fell again. He could not go to Boromir. He could not! But then... to whom could he go?  
  
The door opened. He opened it and he was running out of the oppressive darkness. Running until he slipped on the polished floor and went down to meet the stone with a muffled thud.  
  
Hands grasped his shoulders and placed him back on his feet even as he gave a low cry of fear at the unfamiliar, unexpected touch. Looking up, he saw the familiar helmed face of a Citadel guard.  
  
"You all right, little Lord?" the old hand asked.  
  
"Papa..." Faramir gasped out, not intending the words until they escaped him. He knew as soon as he thought the idea he could not go before his father like this but oh how he ached to!  
  
The guard had been serving in the Citadel since before Boromir's birth and had children of his own. The littlest member of the Hurin household was not hurt, he could see, but he was terribly frightened about something.. This was, the guard decided without hesitation, a task for the lad's father.  
  
"All right, little Lord, I will take you to your father. Just a bad dream, I suspect, but in need a father's touch, eh?"

* * *

Denethor gritted his teeth and glared up at the door that had just been banged upon. If whoever was behind the wooden doors knew what was good for them they would reconsider...  
  
He threw down his pain, disgusted, as the banging sounded again. It matched, he thought, the rhythm being pounded out in his head, which made it all the more annoying. Oh, if whoever wished to speak to him at this dreadful hour did not have a damn good reason...  
  
Denethor opened the door with a growl and came face to face with one of the Tower Guard. He snarled, "What?"  
  
Before the guard could speak Denethor heard a sob and a bundle of elbows and ankles flew into the room. His alarm grew when he saw the boy was hysterical. He grasped his littlest son by the shoulders and nodded to the guard.  
  
Denethor steered the boy into the nearest chair, a plush one by the fire Boromir tended to occupy when in the room, and crouched to his level, trying to shush him, "Calm down, Faramir, hush. You will make yourself sick, boy. Calm down."  
  
"S...sor...sorry...fa...father..." Faramir stammered, "...s...sorry..."  
  
"Shh," Denethor murmured, rubbing the thin shoulders gently.  
  
After a few moments Faramir still appeared unable to halt his sobs and Denthor strode to the door to bark an order, "Bring me a bowl of cold water, a cloth, a glass of hot milk and a bucket, NOW!"  
  
Someone, he was unsure who, leapt to do as he bade even as he turned back to Faramir, who was clutching his stomach, his face pinched through the sobs and shakes. Denethor lunged forward, tossing the fruit from a large glass bowl, uncaring as it scattered over the floor and a few pieces of furniture. He held it under the boy as Faramir heaved, his father making nonsense shushing noises as he rubbed Faramir's back.  
  
The boy seemed to cry harder after, even as Denethor wiped the spit from his mouth gently with the napkin that sat with his untouched dinner. Denethor, getting rather distressed as Faramir could not seem to stop crying, drew his son against him, rocking him gently.  
  
"...sor...sorry...father...I...I...cannot..." Faramir mumbled, his hands clutching Denethor's tunic spasmodically.  
  
"Shh, be calm, little one, tell me what happened," Denethor murmured, stroking the boy's sweaty hair.  
  
"A...a...dream..." The shaking increased and Denethor instinctively tightened his hold on the boy. "b...but...it was...not a dream...it was not a dream!"  
  
"What was it, child?" Denethor asked gently, even as his heart froze with fear for his youngest.  
  
"I do not know!" Faramir wailed, burying his face in his father's tunic.  
  
"Shh, shh. Calm, child, calm," Denethor shushed. "What did you see in this dream?"  
  
"An island and...and..." Faramir tensed, "...a wave...and...I...Father!"  
  
Denethor pushed Faramir over the bowl just in time as the boy heaved again. Denethor supported the trembling body, rubbing the shuddering back as his mind reeled.  
  
An island. A wave. A dream that was not a dream. Damn.  
  
Denethor knew his boys would be vulnerable to the gift of foresight but neither had showed signs of being taken by visions before. Denethor had them from time to time, but not strongly. They were always hazy and indistinct and he never fully trusted them. Such things were foolish, he thought, but... they were unsettling, even frightening at times.  
  
He had not had one until his late twenties and then it was little more than snatches of the long ago sinking. The roar of water, once, and the darkness of the wave. The gurgles and screams of the dying, another time. A feeling of utter despair and fear was all he saw the third of such dreams.  
  
Mere instants and at a time when he had already been exposed to the ways of war and death, and still the scene haunted him. Faramir was still a child!  
  
A knock came at the door and Denethor called over his shoulder, "Enter!"  
  
A servant carried in what Denethor had requested on a large tray, the bucket held under his arm. He set it on the desk, carefully avoiding the papers.  
  
Denethor passed the bowl to the servant wordlessly, his attention still focussed on his youngest, putting the bucket next to the chair. "Do you wish for me to call a healer, my Lord?"  
  
"No, but make sure none disturb us," Denethor muttered.  
  
"Yes, my Lord," the servant said before Denethor heard him leave.  
  
Denethor dipped the cloth into the water and gently bathed his son's sweaty face. It took time, but the boy calmed a bit, the sobs less harsh, the trembling less violent, but his distress was still evident.  
  
"Shh, calm down, little one, all will be well," Denethor soothed.  
  
Faramir made a strangled sound, which was distinctly negative and shook his head, wet curls clinging to his face. Denethor brushed them away gently and wiped his hot face with the cloth again.  
  
"No, you are correct, it will not be all well, and I cannot make it so but I can explain," Denethor promised. "Breathe deeply, little one, for I need you to tell me all of what you dreamt."  
  
Faramir struggled to begin as Denethor rose and got the milk, no longer too hot for the boy to drink. He laced the warm liquid with brandy, testing the temperature and content by sipping it himself, before pouring himself a small glass of the liquor. Not much, for he had to be coherent for this, just enough to settle his rattled nerves.  
  
He helped Faramir hold the mug, for the boy's hands shook so badly still he would have spilt half of it. Faramir paused in his narration and sipped it slowly, until the warmth settled and he drank more deeply.  
  
Faramir was calmer, an effect of the brandy laced, warm milk, but still sniffling as Denethor settled the boy in his lap, something he had not done for at least two years. Faramir did not object, one hand clutching his father's tunic, in the fashion of his childhood habit, and the other around his neck as he struggled to tell his father of the nightmare that had plagued his sleep.  
  
It took little time for Denethor to know that it was indeed a vision, not a dream, that had stolen in and ruined Faramir's sleep. It was so much more than he had ever seen. Too much for his child to see!  
  
It broke his heart to hear it, he had never dreamed so clearly himself and in hearing what it was to do so never wished to, but once Faramir began he could not stop and the words spilled past his lips even as he began to cry softly again. Denethor held him close, tucking his cloak around the boy when the shivers began again.  
  
For an eleven year old child to see the end of Numenor, the destruction of an entire civilization... Denethor felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest. Faramir was still a child. His child! To have all that death splayed out before him, to have it been lived by his little son, Denethor felt tears prick his own eyes as Faramir finished, soft, whimper like cries muffled by his father's tunic.  
  
Denethor held the eleven year old close, stroking his hair and back gently until the boy quieted before saying gently, "I can explain what has happened now if you would like, Faramir."  
  
There was a pause, then Denethor felt Faramir nod against his shoulder. Denethor kept rubbing his back gently as he spoke, "You had a vision, my little one."  
  
Faramir did not know why that made him shudder but he was glad his father hugged him tighter. "You saw Numenor sink beneath the waves."  
  
"I am not sure what this means but you may very well have more visions, of the past or future or of events that will not happen at all," Denethor sighed. "It will not be easy and I would take this from you were it in my power to do so."  
  
"It is not," Faramir said, his sad voice muffled. "I know you cannot...I...understand, I think."  
  
They sat in silence for a time, until Denethor found the courage to ask a question he dreaded the answer to, "Did you fear coming to me tonight, Faramir?"  
  
There was a hesitation and Faramir's voice was quiet, "Yes."  
  
Denethor closed his eyes as if in pain by the admission. He and Faramir did not always get along, and often Denethor wondered if perhaps he was being too harsh on the boy, but he had not meant for his son to fear him!  
  
"Never fear to come to me when a vision troubles you, little one," Denethor told him gently. "You cannot help them, and many may frighten you or be confusing. Do not keep them to yourself if something inside you tells you to share the burden."  
  
Denethor sighed softly, "And if you ever feel you cannot come to me tell your brother or your uncle, but do not keep them secret if you need to share them and you never need to fear coming to me with a vision, I promise."  
  
"Yes, father," Faramir murmured, his grip on his father tightening for a moment. "I am sorry I was afraid."  
  
Denethor inhaled sharply and his hold changed so he was nearly cradling the boy against him, as if Faramir were the most precious being in the world. "I understand and it is no fault of yours that I have been... distant as of late. You and your brother are my greatest joys, my most beloved jewels. I love you, Faramir, my little one. Never forget that."  
  
Faramir went completely still at that, something telling him he needed to cherish that moment, "I will not forget, father, I love you."  
  
Denethor smiled gently, as Faramir yawned around his words. The hour was late and Faramir had suffered much emotional stress, not to mention having ingested a good deal of brandy for an eleven year old! "Do you think you can sleep again this night?"  
  
Faramir tensed immediately and seemed to shrink further into his father's arms. Denethor's fingers turned the pale face to look at him. "I will guard your dreams tonight, little one, for after visions you may find yourself taken by dreams of the same sort."  
  
"I am afraid, father," Faramir admitted in a shaky, hesitant voice, his fingers clutching at Denethor's tunic again.  
  
"I understand it, Faramir, and the visions... will rarely be pleasant but they cannot hurt you. They may be frightening, yes, but they cannot harm you," Denethor said gently. "Now let us get you to bed, shall we? And hope for sweet dreams tonight."  
  
Faramir offered a half hearted protest when Denethor began to carry him from the room, unwilling to seem weak before his father. Denethor shushed him and pressed a kiss to his hair. "Indulge an aging man with the pleasure of carrying his youngest son who shall soon be too big and strong to carry!"  
  
Denethor settled Faramir into bed, resting the boy's head in his lap and stroking the dark hair. Faramir sighed softly; it had been a long while since he had felt this close to his father.  
  
Denethor smiled sadly as Faramir relaxed and drifted off, lulled by his father's gentle caresses. His poor little son, he did not wish these accursed visions upon him ever! They were rarely peaceful, often very violent, even those that were only snatches and one could never tell if they were truthful!  
  
And to have them come at such a young age... If Denethor was another man he might have wept but he could only be himself and the brandy had settled and his thoughts became heavy with guilt.  
  
They settled uneasily on the palantir, that damn stone. He had used it often as of late, and it forced his own gifts into activity simply for the stress of using it, for it was tiring to wield it and he was unpracticed still. There was much he seemed to not understand about the seeing stone which he had thought he did.  
  
Could he have, by complete and utter accident, triggered Faramir's vision and brought forth the boy's potential gifts before his little one was ready? His heart clenched in anguish at the thought, for he truly only wished to protect Gonder with his actions.  
  
Faramir's breathing was deep and easy, Denethor hoped the brandy would keep the dreams at bay for at least a time. Indeed, his own father had, when explaining the visions to him with no knowledge at all of what they were like save for second hand tellings, plied him with so much liquor Denethor had not dreamt at all and had needed help finding his own chambers when he left his father's study.  
  
Denethor resolved to lock away the accursed seeing stone tomorrow as his fingers combed through the wavy hair. His eyes remained on Faramir's pale face a moment longer, then he checked to see the if boy slept deeply and stole from the room, unwilling to put it off even until the morrow for fear he would talk himself out of it.  
  
"Watch over the child," Denethor instructed the guard. "If he so much twitches in a manner that does not reflect peace come get me at once. And start a fire, quietly so you do not wake him, for he is exhausted and will be prone to taking chill tonight."  
  
"Yes, my Lord," the guards answered without hesitation. The members of the Tower Guard had watched over the Steward's children for their entire lives and thought the world of the sometimes too solemn children.  
  
Doubts began to circle in Denethor's weary mind when he entered the room where the palantir was, covered by a black cloth on a stone table. What did he risk by putting it away? He had learned much by using it and much more could be learned to help his realm but...Faramir's pale face came to mind, his tears and the terror in his grey eyes.  
  
Denethor gazed at the cloth covered stone for a moment then opened an oak trunk that lay empty near by. Denethor carefully picked the stone up; making sure the cloth covered it entirely for he did not wish Faramir's rest to be disturbed if this were the cause of his visions. He put it in the trunk and locked it before he could change his mind.  
  
The box was handed to the first servant he found with the instructions, "Put it in one of the lower store rooms, out of sight and easy reach."  
  
The key was handed to another servant with the orders, "See that it is melted down and no copy is to be made."  
  
Faramir had not stirred when he returned and a warm fire burned merrily in the fireplace. Denethor checked on the boy, stroking his hair gently for a moment, before turning and browsing the bookcases that seemed to line Faramir's room. Denethor grinned, the boy's tutor had been in to see him several times, not with complaint, but with praise, and a recommendation Denethor allow him access to books that seemed above what would normally be read at his age.  
  
Denethor permitted himself a grin at some of the books; Faramir seemed to shelf them according their degree of difficulty and did not seem to wish to part with any! Indeed, books from when he first learned to read still sat gathering dust on the lowest self. Some he could even remember reading to the boy, which he did no longer, he frowned, remembering he had turned Faramir away in the past weeks.  
  
Why had he done that? He had been most busy lately and since he had begun using the palantir it was becoming normal for his head to ache horribly but, still, he had been short with Faramir too often. Perhaps he could still remedy it.  
  
As his gaze travelled higher though, he sighed in sad remembrance. A few years ago Faramir had expressed an interest in Elvish poetry, not something Denethor particularly thought useful but it did exercise his knowledge of the language, which Denethor thought important. He had given his blessing for Faramir to look through his mother's old books, which had been put into storage after her death along with many of her possessions. It had pained him too much to have too many reminders about for a long time.  
  
A few hours later Denethor had gone to check on the boy and found Faramir trying to consume three books at once. He had laughed over it, and, with a great deal of fondness, had helped his little one move most of the books into his room, to be housed in a bookcase of Findulias' grandmother, which had sat empty since his wife's death.  
  
A few other trinkets of their mother's had also been moved to the boys' rooms later in the week, as Denethor sorted through the possessions as best he could, unable to throw anything away, or see everything that remained in storage daily but wishing for his sons to continue to be deprived of the items because he could not bear the memories.  
  
He absently picked a slim volume from the shelf and, upon opening it, shut his eyes and quickly put it back, drawing in slightly ragged breath. That particular book had been a gift from Findulias to him when they were still courting. Findulias had chanced upon a rather bad piece of poetry he had written for her, which he had never intended any to see.  
  
Structurally it was quite perfect but otherwise...saying it was not particularly good was being rather kind about it. The gift had been something to, as Findulias had said; inspire his words to greater heights, which did not quite happen. From any other it would have been a cruel barb, but from Findulias it was loving teasing, and Denethor had known it.  
  
The joke had been continued by Denethor months later, when he had recited a purposely bland and awful piece of his own when asking for her hand, followed by one memorized from the little book. She had laughed, and answered yes by pressing her lips against his for quite some time.  
  
Denethor half smiled at the memory, running a regretful finger over the spine of the book. That time had long since passed, but that did not mean Denethor did not miss it, that he did not regret the passing of those days. At least, he thought absently, the book was well thumbed again, after having lain untouched for years after being packed up with his wife's things. He hoped his son found joy in it, as he had once been able to do.  
  
Denethor absently grabbed a rather large tome he knew he would not have attempted at eleven. Perhaps, he thought, he should pass some of his old books along to Faramir. There were quite a few that he had enjoyed as a boy that stayed in storage with some things of his father's that currently had no place in the halls.  
  
Tomorrow was to be Boromir's day, Denethor knew, feeling a rush of pride for his eldest, who set off on his first campaign tomorrow, leaving at first light. The Steward knew that despite the early hour of his departure many of the people would be in the streets to see him ride out as a proper soldier for the first time and hear the first blow of the Horn he carried since Denethor himself had worn it.  
  
But after he was gone, and the excitement of the event was over, Faramir would be devastated, and most likely withdraw, hiding behind a mask of a good expression. Denethor wasn't sure when he had schooled such a thing and it was certainly far from perfect but he would use it tomorrow, Denethor was certain.  
  
His boys were so close, something Denethor marvelled at because he knew how intense sibling rivalry often existed between noble siblings. They seemed to have few friends outside of each other. Their cousins, yes, but they did not often see them and there were a few they associated with among nobles living outside the city. Boromir had made friends among his troop but they had always seemed so separate from other children, even when they were very young.  
  
Denethor sighed, it was a lonely life, especially since neither got along overly well with the children of city nobles, though Denethor could not blame them as many were appallingly spoilt.  
  
It would leave his little son in a very lonely place come the morrow though, since Boromir would be gone and he and the child had seemed to quarrel so often of late...No, that was not right. He found fault with Faramir, certainly, but looking back he could not think of a time when they quarrelled just...the hurt in the boy's grey eyes when harsh words found him again.  
  
That could change though, Denethor thought, it would have to change, for the child's sake. He did not want his little one to be without anyone.  
  
It was very likely that Faramir would be beset with dreams tomorrow, and for a few nights after, echoes of this vision. Denethor hoped the boy would come to him and he would check in on him if the boy did not.  
  
Perhaps then would be the best time to surprise him with a box or two of books that currently sat unread in a storage room. That would certainly distract the boy for a time, perhaps even last him until Boromir returned, for he was not to be gone too many months and...perhaps it could also serve as a peace offering. Denethor knew Faramir cherished little else so much, budding scholar that he was.  
  
Not so much a swordsman, though, Denethor thought with a sigh. The arms master did not have as encouraging reports to give him as Faramir's tutor. He was still very slight of build, thin as a whip and not yet having hit his growth spurt. The arms master was wary to put him against other boys for when he had sparred they had overpowered him simply because he lacked the weight they had.  
  
Only time would remedy that though, for Faramir did not seem to put on weight no matter how much food was plied on him, and Denethor knew the cooks did just that, often indulging both his sons when they wandered down to the kitchens. Age, Denethor was sure, would add height and weight to the small frame. But war was coming, Denethor knew it, and he wanted his son to have all the practice he could get, for he did not wish to lose him to some Orc's blade for lack of skill.  
  
Knowing how much Faramir despised warfare made Denethor's tongue sharper than he often intended, for he could not shake a mental image of his son being stuck down by arrows and lost to him. Faramir could not afford too much coddling. He had to be a soldier. There was nothing else for it.  
  
Denethor frowned as Faramir began to stir uneasily. He moved to the bed and eased the pillow from beneath Faramir's head and moved him gently so his thin shoulders rested in Denethor's lap, his head cradled in the crook of Denethor's arm. Sleepy grey eyes opened just a crack before Faramir nestled further into his father's arms.  
  
Denethor caressed his little one's pale cheek gently, feeling comforted somehow by the unconscious show of trust from the boy. He leaned against the headboard, and laid his free arm across Faramir, cradling his son gently.  
  
He awoke before dawn, not having realized he had fallen asleep until he woke with his little son still cradled in his arms. The boy's fingers were curled lightly in his tunic, his face pressed against his arm and curtained by messy, dark hair. Denethor brushed the curls away gently to find Faramir's face peaceful.  
  
Denethor carefully eased Faramir onto the bed, succeeding in not waking him. He peered out the window. It was still dark, the first lights of false dawn easing back the blackness. Boromir would be here soon, Denethor guessed, for there was no chance the elder would leave without first spending time with his little brother.  
  
Denethor would have to explain to his eldest son what had happened; for he was not comfortable leaving his little one unattended even now and it would be easier on Faramir if he did not have to explain to his big brother what he had experienced.  
  
It was not very long before he heard a racket heralding his eldest's arrival in the hall beyond the room. Denethor cringed slightly and hoped that they would teach the boy something of stealth in his months away.  
  
It must have surprised Boromir to find his father coming out of his brother's room at that hour just before he reached the door, but he hid it will, his eyes only widening slightly. "Good morrow, father."  
  
"I am glad to see I know my eldest as well as I supposed I did," Denethor observed with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes for he was still stressed from the night's events. "Your brother has not had an easy night."  
  
Boromir started, alarm transforming his cheerful face. "Has he come to harm? What ails him?"  
  
"Shh, I would not have him woken to raised voices. Faramir had a vision last night, a particularly vivid one that has disturbed him quite badly," Denethor told him. "It left him understandably distressed. Visions are not easy to handle, especially for one so young."  
  
"A vision?" Boromir repeated, his nose wrinkling in distaste. Denethor hid a smile, his eldest was far too practical, as he was, to take much stock in such things.  
  
"Indeed," Denethor answered. "Like ones that have taken both your uncle and myself from time to time."  
  
"Will he be well, father? Should I not go?" Boromir asked, concern painfully evident on his face and in his tone.  
  
"No, no, you must go, son, and you do know it. Faramir will be fine, though he may be a bit shaken this morn. He is in no danger," Denethor assured him. "Do not press him on the matter though; I fear it will only upset him."  
  
"He will be well, Boromir, do not fret so," Denethor soothed, seeing Boromir's near frantic expression. "I know how to deal with these visions and I may send him to Dol Amroth for a time when there is a lull in his studies. Your uncle takes visions too, as you well know, and they are more vivid than mine. And... The sea air always seems to do your brother well. Now, go visit with him, for he shall dearly miss you while you are away, I fear."  
  
Boromir entered the room quietly, seeing his little brother still slept. He leant over the boy, seeming so young at five years his junior, and gently touched a warm hand to the pale cheek. Faramir stirred at his touch and rolled over, grey eyes looking blearily up at his brother.  
  
"Boromir?" Faramir mumbled, confused, feeling as if his head was stuffed with cotton. Had his father not promised to stay with him? He swore he remembered waking hazily to his father's embrace.  
  
"I am here, brother-mine," Boromir said tenderly, sitting on the bed and opening his arms, letting Faramir, who was still half asleep, snuggle into his embrace. "Father left so we could have some time together before I must leave. He explained to me what happened last night, I believe I made such a racket I stirred him from your side!"  
  
Faramir could not help the slight smile that escaped him at that. So his father had stayed! It made Faramir's heart much lighter to know it.  
  
But then he sighed, burrowing into Boromir's arms even as his brother tightened his embrace, confessing to the elder, "I am going to miss you so!"  
  
"I know, brother-mine, for I am going to miss you dearly as well," Boromir told him, kissing his brother atop the head. It worried him a bit, for Faramir was a tactile creature but normally not to such an extent since he had gained a few years. "But I will not be gone for so long."  
  
"Yes, but..." Faramir hesitated and bit his lip, drawing away from his brother and sitting up, the sleepy haze withdrawing further. "Things are different now, aren't they?"  
  
Boromir sighed but nodded. He had been fighting against the feeling since he had returned from his training exercises but it was true, they were all different, age did that. "Yes, but in some ways not so much."  
  
Faramir looked at him, grey eyes clear, and smiled, resting his head against his brother's shoulder, letting Boromir hug him close again. "I know that you love me, Boromir, and that I love you very much and that will never change."  
  
Boromir swallowed and blinked, putting a hand to his brother's hair gently. "So long as you never forget that all will be well."  
  
"You too," Faramir murmured. "You cannot forget either and...and come home soon."

* * *

It was early but there were people enough to watch the Heir to the Stewardship ride out as a man and a soldier for the first time. Denethor could not blame them. Here was their broad strong champion. Here was hope. Who would not want to see his first ride out to victory?  
  
Anything else was unthinkable.  
  
Below them, as his horse galloped out the gates, Boromir raised the Horn to his lips and blew three great long blasts from it. Denethor felt his heart swell with pride at this inspiring man who was his eldest son but, even as he did he felt a shiver at his side.  
  
Faramir's face was pale. His eyes shone wetly with tears he would not let fall. Gondor's finest, yes, but big brother too, and gone. Denethor felt a surge of sympathy for his youngest, remembering his own lonely childhood in the Citadel, with two sisters always too busy with their own affairs and intrigues to pay him mind and a father who was too consumed by his work to notice his Heir until he grew old enough to be useful.  
  
Denethor hesitated but put an arm about the thin shoulders and pulled the boy a tad closer. Faramir looked up at him, not hiding his surprise, and leaned into the offered comfort. Together, they watched as Boromir rode away.

* * *

"Where were you?" Faramir asked, hurt and slight anger hidden in his voice.  
  
Aragorn sighed. He had been waiting for the question. It had been three nights since he could seek out his little friend. Three nights of great worry and slow progress towards Rivendell, the nearest safe haven, carrying Halbarad between them for he was too wounded to walk under his own power.  
  
He would be fine, though he had taken fever on the journey. That had been no trouble to the Elf healer Aragorn called Adar. They were all in Lord Elrond's care for the moment and as such there was a soft warm bed waiting and Aragorn had no trouble taking advantage of it. Too often he found himself sleeping in a ditch by the side of the road on his travels.  
  
He had found Faramir as swiftly as possible and known straight away that something was not right with the boy. He was withdrawn and seemed... shy almost, which he never had before in Aragorn's presence. Something had happened, Aragorn knew, but Faramir had skirted around it, at first, when he had tried to find out what.  
  
"You remember when I told you I was no longer a soldier but something akin to it?" Aragorn waited for Faramir to nod before continuing. "One of my fellows was wounded badly and I had to tend to him until we could reach a safe place for him to heal. My nights were spent watching over him."  
  
"Is he okay?" Faramir asked in a quiet voice.  
  
"Yes, he is, though he will be laid up for a time," Aragorn replied.  
  
"I was angry with you," Faramir admitted, flushing a bit. "It seems selfish now."  
  
"You could not have known," Aragorn told him, understanding it. "But... Faramir, I have many duties and, as much as I would like to, sometimes I may not be able to be here. It is not that I do not wish to be but..."  
  
"I know," Faramir interrupted sharply. "I know about duty. You need not explain that to me."  
  
"Tithen min, I know it seems unfair," Aragorn began. "But..."  
  
"It does not seem unfair, it is unfair!" Faramir exclaimed. "Duty keeps you away and keeps my father working all the time so he barely has time for me and takes my brother off where he might die and makes me be a soldier too when I do not want to be! I know duty and I hate it!"  
  
Faramir was a bit flushed from his outburst and sat down heavily on a stone bench, head down and shoulders hunched miserably. "But...I know what it means to have such duties and that even if I do hate it I have to bear it and bear it well because...because if I do not then other people might suffer, like your friend and I do not want that!"  
  
Faramir looked up at his friend miserably, "It would be selfish of me to want that. Even when something that happens to me is unfair, it would be more unfair if my father did not work so hard and our people suffered for it, or my brother did not fight and someone lost their brother because he did not."  
  
Aragorn could only stare for a moment. He remembered all to well his reaction to Elrond's revelations about what his duty was and would be at the age of twenty. It still did not sit well with him, even less so that a child should have to understand such things.  
  
He sat beside Faramir on the bench and put his arm around the boy even when Faramir tried to shrug it off. After a moment, the boy relaxed in the one armed hug. "I am sorry, Estel, I did not mean to..."  
  
"No, Faramir, there is nothing to apologize for," Aragorn told him. "It is not fair, and it likely never will be, and you may feel that way so long as you understand that what must be done still must be done, no matter how much you do not like it."  
  
"I know and I do not mean to complain but sometimes...sometimes I feel very lonely and I could not find you and then Boromir was gone too and...and I thought, maybe, you just would not come back. He might not come back, you know, no one says it but he might not and I do not know what I would do if he left me for good!" Faramir murmured.  
  
"Ah, child," Aragorn whispered, not sure what to say for the boy was right! "As often as I am able I will find you. You will not be alone."  
  
"Okay," Faramir whispered, willing to take Aragorn for his word simply because he wanted it to be true.  
  
"Were your dreams dark when I was not there, Faramir?" Aragorn asked gently.  
  
Faramir nodded slowly. "My father said they were not dreams but visions. He says I saw Numenor when...when it sank."  
  
Aragorn paled a bit. That was not something a child should see. "I am sorry I was not there to stop it."  
  
"You could not help it," Faramir shrugged. "I do not think you could have stopped it forever, either."  
  
"No, it is unlikely I could have," Aragorn agreed. "But...I know some dreamers. The visions cannot be stopped, or if they can I do not know it, but if any know of a way to dim them I will find it for you."  
  
Faramir smiled shyly, "Thank you."  
  
"It is no trouble, tithen min, not it if aids you," Aragorn told him. "Now, I think we have had enough of this sad talk. I have thought of a tale you might enjoy."  
  
"Does it involve your brothers?" Faramir asked, allowing the conversation to be changed, a hint of a smile remaining on his lips.  
  
"My brothers and a plan to capture a spider of Mirkwood," Aragorn began. "Not one of their more successful plans. In the end, one of them ended up shooting himself in the foot...

* * *

_Author's Notes: First off, thanks go to Mandi, as always.  
  
Second, I realize Faramir acts a bit childish in this chapter but, well, I thought given the circumstances it was appropriate. His visions, at least in this story, are very, very clear, so it was something like him actually being there. I would be crying like a baby if I experienced anything remotely like that. That being said, if anyone things his reactions are too extreme in any way let me know! I live on feedback! Well, feedback and food and stuff...  
  
Third, the foot shooting thing I'm crediting to Cassia and Sio, though I added the part about it coming about because of an attempt to catch a spider. Don't ask me how it happened, the twins are very tight lipped about it!  
  
Hope everyone enjoyed it and now I'm off to my cottage for the first time this summer! Damn summer job...  
  
_**shireling: **_Thanks! They've patched it up a little here but it's, obviously, a temporary fix. Hope this was soon enough for ya!  
  
_**DarkAngelius**_: Making Mandi actually like Denethor was the original inspiration behind this story! Glad you're enjoying it!  
  
_**Cressida: **_Sorry I haven't e-mailed you back yet. I will, I promise. My boss went on vacation and guess who gets all her shifts? E-mail has been neglected in favour of writing.  
  
_**ellennar**_: Eventually I'm hoping they'll come together. I don't think he was ever a b.b.q./little league type father but I don't think he was a bad father either, at least, in the beginning. There will be more Estel/Elrond moments and if you enjoy those may I suggest you check out Cassia's stories? Also has many Legolas/Aragorn friendship moments and Legolas/Thranduil father-son stuff and, of course, the Twins.  
  
_**Lirenel**_: Transistion is not quite done yet, but it's well on it's way. Bits and pieces of the Fellowships journey will come into play in this story but you'll have to wait until then to see if Boromir makes the connection_**!  
  
Rosie26**_: Glad it wasn't a disappointment, hoping this isn't either! Faramir will always be wiser than his years, I think_**.  
  
Arahiril: **_You work with eleven year olds regularly? Poor you! It's bad enough having them about the house because of my brother! Denethor is so bloody complicated he makes me head hurt. I think later his use of the palantir is something of an extention of the reasons he used it to begin with, he sees of all Gondor as his, after all, and wants to protect it. With the Boromir the Brave stuff, he did have a bit of a temper, he was a soldier's soldier, I can see him at first being a little recklace because he was looking for glory too. Faramir, on the other hand, was probably a bit too reserved at first. I think both of them may have had trouble at first. As for your request...They do clash in this fic, but it's over Faramir or at least it is so far. I don't know all of it quite yet_**.  
  
Patty**_: Boromir's known about good old Estel for awhile. He doesn't trust him but he knows Faramir's safe with him. I don't think Faramir could keep a secret like that from his Boromir for long_**.  
  
lindahoyland: **_Glad you're enjoying it. Aragorn did sneak in there as a father type figure, didn't he? I didn't originally plan it that way but, hey, it happens. It's not just the palantir that makes Denethor...grouchy but that is, I think, one of the more amusing aspects to explore.  
  
_**shie1dmaidenofrohan**_: Hope this was quick enough! What are you going to do in the school year when I'm really busy again?  
  
Well, I think answering reviews took more space than the actual chapter. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. sniff _


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.**

**Author's Notes: Thanks, as always, to Mandi for betaing! Another time jump here. Faramir is 14. Boromir is now part of the regular army. **

**Chapter 7**

"Make way! Make way for the wounded!"

The dreaded shouts seemed to echo through the stone city. The wagon wheels thundered along the stone road up and up and up to the sixth level, carrying the wounded soldiers directly to the Houses of Healing. The first moved with frightening speed and mothers pulled children quickly from the streets at the hollered calls to make way.

In front of the wagons rode a messenger, only ahead because he had more speed then the wounded weighted wagons. The young man looked exhausted, his face pale and smudged with dirt. He looked as if he had come directly from a battle, most likely because he had.

He did not stop at the stables used to house the soldier's horses. He did not stop until the last and, if given the choice, he likely would have ridden into the citadel itself rather than pause. He flew on weary feet through the great doors and into the great building as the wagons turned on hurried wheels and healers rushed out to greet them. Controlled chaos consumed the Houses within moments.

The messenger was halted before the broad, tall, oak doors of the council chambers. "You cannot disturb the meeting, soldier, not for anything less than a catastrophe."

"The Lord Boromir is dying, can you think of a greater catastrophe?" the trembling messenger asked with a thin, weary voice.

The guard who had stopped him paled considerably. "Open the doors!"

The messenger squeaked inside as soon as they had rolled open and faced the council members with no small amount of fear. He bowed hurriedly and raised very cautious eyes to the Steward, who had risen in surprise, his face dark with anger, at the interruption.

"My Lord Steward, your son was wounded and has been returned to the city. The healers," the messenger gulped, "they fear he will not survive."

All the blood drained from the Steward's face and, for a brief moment, he closed his eyes. When he opened them they were shuttered and it would have taken one with powers beyond those of men to read the direction of his thoughts.

"My Lords, it appears the situation that has been building will no longer be ignored. We shall cease in the debate of these petty concerns and focus on the matter of our fighting troops and the debate shall be swift," Denethor gazed with hard eyes around the room. "For I must soon go to the side of my beloved son."

All hell broke loose in the council chambers and the messenger was dismissed with the flick of a hand. Denethor sat as one of stone as the oak doors shut, all about him squabbling to have their voice heard above the others.

* * *

Faramir was waiting with Anborn as his arm was bound when the wagons arrived. Both were quickly dismissed, the wounded soldiers being brought in taking precedence to the soothing of a twelve year old with an already bound, sprained wrist.

Both boys we told sternly to scamper and were doing just so when Faramir caught sight of the first stretcher being borne inside and the familiar bloodied form that rested upon it. Anborn looked at his elder classmate uncertainly but Faramir continued, seeing the younger boy out of the Houses before sneaking back.

He found his brother's room by carefully scooting along the ledge under the windows and peeking inside until he found the one where Boromir lay, healers fussing about him.

There was... blood. A great deal of it. And his brother's face seemed paler than the white linen pillow they rested his head upon. A dollop of red, the size of a raspberry, edged out of the corner of his mouth and wove down his chin and neck like a ribbon.

Faramir knew what that meant, could mean, please, make it not mean that. Injuries inside, he had had some healing lessons, just enough to know what to do to help until a real healer got there. Injuries inside that they would not be able to help, unless, maybe, perhaps...

"Rise his mouth out. He has bitten the inside of his cheek and we do not want him choking on his own blood," a healer ordered, moving into Faramir's view so he could no longer see his brother's face. "Did it recently, probably when he was being moved here."

"There are more important wounds to take care of," someone said.

A body moved. Boromir's ghost like face was in view again but he was being held down. The bandages around his leg were being cut off. They had become stuck by crusted blood and blood that still seeped from the wound.

"Damnit, who did these stitches," someone muttered, taking in the gory mess. Faramir thought he might be sick and had to look away for a moment.

"Soldier, probably, is that the worst?" The simply clothing Boromir had been dressed in had been cut away. Several wounds blossomed red against the beige bandages that seemed darker than his pale skin.

"The longest and the deepest. It nearly hit an artery." The wound, a chasm in Boromir's thigh, flesh painted red with blood against stiff, jagged black stitches, was being thoroughly cleaned.

"He has other wounds. They bled quite a bit but they are not threatening anything important." The was one on his chest, the bandage half hanging off before it was taken off completely. Blood sluggishly bubbled up at the end when the bandage was removed.

"The leg wound does not look like it will become infected either." Faramir saw the tiny silver glint of a needle.

"Lucky, that, he has a bit of a fever, not high though, probably from being moved about." It flashed as it hovered above his brother's flesh.

"He will not be up and about for a while but he will not lose the leg either. That is something to be thankful about." It dove into his thigh, the wound cleaned and opened and being sewn shut again. Faramir felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as the healer stitched flesh back together.

He had to turn away and shakily slid down so he was sitting on the ledge, his legs dangling over. There were bushes below him. He leaned forward, clutching his stomach, and heaved.

Shivering, back against the cold stone, he waited, listening. He could not stand to see anymore. He could not. That was his brother, his Boromir in there being... being sewn together like a pillow!

The hubbub died eventually. Stitched, cleaned, bandaged and dosed with potions, the healers had done all they could for the Heir to the Stewardship. He would, they thought, recover, but first his fever had to break and then he had to wake up.

After those two feats were accomplished they would have to deal with the consequences of the leg injury and the weakness that would accompany the bloodloss. There was little doubt he would recover, the wounds being more superficial than had first been thought, but that recovery would last a time.

A nurse remained with him, for there were other wounded to see, and more still arriving, and the healers were needed elsewhere. When it had quieted, when the nurse seemed occupied fashioning serviceable bandages, Faramir peeked through the window again and, seeing there was no one but the quiet nurse about, slipped through the window.

The nurse looked up and frowned at the pale visitor. If this had been any other they would have found themselves emptying bed pans and cleaning out stables for months to come but... She found herself looking at the pale face of the Steward's youngest son and Boromir's beloved brother.

"You should not be here, child," she said quietly though it was unlikely Boromir would wake for some time.

"My brother is hurt, where else would I be?" Faramir replied. His voice shook slightly but his grey eyes were resolute.

"You will find a way to sneak back in if I turn you out," the nurse smiled only slightly. "You will keep quiet and stay out of the healers' way should the need arise?"

Faramir nodded solemnly. "Please let me stay with him. He might need me."

The nurse sighed and said neither yea nor nay but uttered no sound when Faramir curled up near his brother in the corner of the bed, as if guarding him, there was no protest. The nurse thought the younger boy would fall asleep there.

Faramir did not but watched his brother's pale face closely as if by his will alone he could tie Gondor's favourite son to their land for just awhile longer, no matter what injuries befell him...

* * *

"My lord," the nurse said, "I will return shortly so you may have a few private moments."

Denethor nodded curtly. The council had gone too long for his liking. Night had already fallen and passed into the next day before he could venture to his son's side. The healer had briefed him upon entering the Houses that Boromir's injuries, while severe, were not fatal wounds, though it had first appeared they might have been. He would need time to recover but he would be fine.

Denethor thought he had felt his heart start beating again at that news.

He entered the quiet room, glad to finally be with his son, hoping he did not look too ill because Denethor did not know if he could stand that at the moment and looked to the bed where his son lay sleeping only to find himself met with a pair of wary grey eyes. Faramir was wedged between the wall and his brother, half curled protectively around his head, listening to Boromir breathe.

Father and son regarded each other warily for long moments. Faramir knew the one person who could order him from his brother's side was his father and Denethor knew the only way to keep Faramir from his brother would be to order guards to the room for the child would simply sneak back in!

But, and Denethor felt himself soften, Boromir would not wish them to be at odds and his brother's presence might well buoy the ill man's health. The healers would have made sure he stayed away otherwise, not even Denethor had the courage to try and cross them!

That in mind, Denethor smiled gently at his youngest, knowing Faramir was most likely as distressed as he over Boromir injuries.

"Come here, child, you cannot be comfortable there," Denethor offered quietly, gesturing to the chair beside the one he had taken.

Faramir looked at him with eyes that were clearly distrustful but relief at his eldest's condition simmered his temper, which had too often of late been on a constant boil. Faramir had too often borne the blunt edge of that temper and though Denethor always managed to justify the harsh words he spoke to his youngest, sometimes, when he later thought of it, he felt perhaps he went too far.

Faramir slowly untangled himself, slipping away from the bed awkwardly but carefully so not to disturb his brother. Denethor did not fail to notice that Faramir moved very stiffly and he had little doubt the boy had been there for some time.

"How long have you been here?" Denethor asked quietly, putting a hand on his son's thin shoulder, surprising them both. For a moment, Denethor thought to take the touch away but... No, he left it there.

"Since my archery lesson ended," Faramir said uncomfortably. "But my lessons were canceled after my weapons' practice because my tutor is ill."

"That is a long time to stay here when you dislike the healers so," Denethor said quietly, frowning. Tonight, this morning, he could not find it in him to lecture the boy. His relief was too great and Faramir was distracting him from his dark thoughts. "I am

sure he will appreciate it. You are a good brother to him."

"I was scared for him. There was so much blood..." Faramir shuddered and Denethor wondered how much the healers had let him see. He frowned, too much, he thought, for his son looked haunted by it.

"He will be fine, Faramir. The wounds are not bad. He will be weak for a time but he is in no danger," Denethor assured him.

Faramir let out a relieved sigh and seemed to wilt. Denethor's arm wrapped around his shoulders quickly, suddenly worried about his youngest as Faramir was the colour of the marble walls. Faramir shuddered once, his tired mind overwhelmed with the knowledge that his brother would be fine after so many hours of worrying. Hearing his father say it... It made it feel true.

Denethor tenderly wiped away the tears of relief that had squeezed out of Faramir's eyes without comment. He marvelled for a moment again at the closeness of his children and wondered absently when Faramir had learned to weep silently. The thought was discomforting. He drew his young son's head against his shoulder and let him cry, as the boy's fingers clutched at Denethor's tunic.

Denethor kept an arm around him when the tears halted and Faramir sagged against his father. "You should rest, child."

Faramir bit his lip. "I do not want to leave. He might need me."

It touched Denethor, that devotion and he sighed softly. Faramir would not sleep away from his brother, not under these circumstances and he could not be annoyed with the boy's loyalty. "Rest your head on my shoulder and see if you cannot rest. I will wake you if there is a change."

Faramir hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was some sort of trick, then curled up on the chair beside his father, laying his head against the still strong shoulder. Denethor stilled for a moment, but then his arm drew Faramir a bit closer and Denethor's cloak was thrown around him.

And then Faramir's grey eyes looked up at him with such surprise and gratitude... Denethor was sorely tempted to stroke the dark hair that tickled his neck softly. In that moment he could find no fault in his youngest son. The boy was worried about his dear brother, devoted to Gondor's golden warrior when he lay injured; there was no fault in that surely!

Faramir was still a child in many ways, Denethor thought, and that child had thought he would lose his big brother. He deserved the comfort and Denethor found, to his surprise, that it helped settle his nerves further to be near to this child while watching over his other son.

He was precious, this nearly grown up child. Faramir was on the cusp of adulthood in the eyes of Gondor and when he reached that age... Denethor swallowed. Then he would have to worry of him too and Faramir was not the warrior his brother was!

Denethor tightened his hold slightly on his youngest. He did not want his little one to grow up. He wanted to hold on to the sunny little boy who used to clamour into his lap and chatter away to him.

Already they were often at odds, for Faramir was not Boromir, and could never be what Boromir had become to Denethor and the people of Gondor. Boromir was their bright star, their beacon of hope even now. Faramir did not shine so, nor did he want to, and Denethor knew that there was a kind of strength to him but it was not the kind Denethor needed for Gondor. In another time, yes, but with Mordor creeping on the edges of their country...

Faramir was not a warrior but he needed to be a warrior. Denethor was at his wits' end with the child, who was not his brother, who still had misgivings about killing another creature. That would change, Denethor knew, with his first battle but Faramir would have to survive that first battle for it to be given the chance!

Denethor knew he had been a swine these past months in the treatment of his youngest son. The boy tried so hard to please him and he was well spoken of by many but Denethor found he could not always control his increasingly irrational anger when it came to his youngest son.

He watched Faramir at his sword practise and saw weakness. He looked into the palantir and saw such weaknesses cost men their lives. Sons of other father's. He did not want to send Faramir to such a fate.

It terrified Denethor at times, that thought, and he tried to force Faramir to drive himself further but... He was not sure he went about it the right way. Faramir tried so hard to please him, the problem was he had not yet, not really, not with the sword which Denethor thought would be the weapon his son was most likely to wield most often.

He knew Faramir was confused and hurt at his actions sometimes. He had never been so gruff, and yes, even cruel at times, when dealing with the child before. He feared one day he would hurt Faramir too deeply and he did not wish to do so. He only wished to keep his son from being gutted by an Orc spear.

He did love his sons dearly. Boromir, his golden child, his warrior and Faramir, his little one whom he so wished could stay his little one forever. Then he would not have to worry of him fighting for his life in battle, nor use hurtful words to make sure he pushed himself harder in his use of the sword.

He pressed a kiss to Faramir's dark head. Faramir murmured in his sleep. It was a temporary peace between them, Denethor knew, but he would relish it, while it lasted.

* * *

Boromir struggled to awareness with the feeling of a hand on his forehead and the heaviness of limbs that refused to properly respond. He was in pain but it was vague, hazy.

So the healers had him. He supposed that was a blessing.

Sleep beckoned. He felt the weariness more acutely than the pain. He felt it from his skin seeping down into his bones.

The memories of the battle and before were foggy but Boromir supposed they must have won if he was still alive. If they had lost he doubted not that his head would be adorning a pike somewhere.

Odd, he knew he should feel more revulsion at that thought. Absently he wondered whether the potions they healers used to dull pain or the simply repetition of life as a soldier had desensitized him to such a thought.

Ah, well, there was another battle to be fought and won, he hoped. This one had a smaller goal, to force his eyelids open, yet they felt as if they were welded shut so a battle it would be.

It took time and had Boromir had the strength to utter curses he would have but dark lashes fluttered against his pale cheeks and swept upwards just slightly, glazed grey eyes opening but a crack. Everything was blurry.

"Boromir, child..." The hand on his forehead moved. His eyes focused.

His father? If his father was there he was in Minas Tirith. Ah, badly hurt then. Damn.

He wanted to say something. His father looked so worried and Boromir noticed, hazily, that there were new lines creasing his face. He managed a garbled moaning noise.

There was a sudden shot of movement. Boromir could not focus enough to understand what it was, at first, but then he heard a cry of joy and his little brother swam into focus.

"Keep him quiet while I fetch the healers," Denethor instructed.

Boromir would have frowned if his face had been co-operating with him. Damn the healers and their potions. Damn blood loss which, he knew, had to have a lot to do with it.

Faramir should not be here. Oh, Boromir was very glad to have him there with him but... Still, Faramir was his little brother. Boromir did not want him to see such things yet!

Faramir's head bent suddenly, and Boromir felt his hand being held gently, almost timidly, by a smaller one. There was a hesitation then the flutter of lips against his skin, as if Faramir was scared even the fragile touch would hurt him.

Boromir felt a tear trail down his cheek. It ran no more than halfway before Faramir wiped it away with timid fingers. He saw his little brother's cheeks were wet too.

Faramir sniffled once and seemed to regain control. He gave Boromir's hand a soft squeeze. "I love you, Boromir."

Boromir would have liked to return the sentiment but the healers poured into the room in the next moment, forcing Faramir to back away and speech was beyond him still. Faramir knew it though, and though they would have been nice the words were not needed between them.

The weariness returned, overwhelmingly so and caught Boromir up in a grip he could not escape. The hum of the healers conferring about him and his father's grim, fiercely proud face, the dim light making the Steward look more a ghost than anything else, accompanied him down into the depths of sleep.

* * *

What Denethor felt of his eldest son's recovery, progressing slowly, for there had been several set backs, he did not show. Those who were closest to him felt, in fact, that he grew colder.

Those closest, except for his eldest son. Boromir Denethor doted on to the point where it grew to embarrass the teenager. He knew his injuries stemmed from his own rashness, and if he had not, the master at arms was quick to point it out to him as soon as he was hobbling about the Citadel. It felt odd that his father would praise him and, well, nearly coddle him after such a thing.

As the attention Denethor paid to his eldest increased what he paid to his youngest declined. Faramir felt shunted aside, for all anyone talked about was his brother and he did not mind that but... He and his father had argued too often recently, yes, but... arguing was better than the silences that stretched between them once Boromir returned.

And, worse to Faramir's mind, they were silences his father did not notice for they were not silences to him, only moments filled with the chatter of others and, Faramir thought sadly, probably more pleasing chatter at that. If Boromir was there what need had their father for him?

Denethor was, admittedly, avoiding his youngest son. He had decided, sitting at his eldest's bedside, his youngest son leaning against him in sleep, that until he could control his increasingly reckless temper he would avoid the situations that fueled them.

That he had begun using the palantir again, finding the chest and opening it with the help of a small axe, put him on edge for using it took a good deal of effort and left him weary and irritable. The creatures that his army had gone up against had not been destroyed, merely defeated for a time, and he needed to watch them carefully to ensure they would not harry his people without warning again.

* * *

_Author's Notes: To start off, I hate, HATE, this chapter. It took to long to write, and it didn't turn out quite like I wanted it, but I needed it in there for the next chapter so it was a necessary evil. Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long to write but I am starting school next Tuesday, so updates will be even slower than they have been most likely!_

_lindahoyland: Thank you! Evil!Denethor is hard to escape sometimes and, believe you me, he'll have his moments in this story. He's a bloody complicated man, that Steward!_

_shireling: In this version, part of the reason Faramir is so desperate for his father's attention is because he used to have it and then Denethor starts pulling away and we all know it's just going to get worse before it gets any better!_

_shie1dmaidenofrohan: Wow, great review! I love the long ones! Thanks! He didn't tear the place apart, just took an axe to the chest... Denethor is...I see him as one of those people who can pick ANY mistake out of a newspaper or book but when it comes to writing something creative himself...Yeah, not so much. I've said it before and I'll say it again, he's a damn complicated guy and trying to get inside his head is tiring! I can't elaborate on the foot shooting story because it's not mine! I borrowed it from Cassia and Sio's Mellon Chronicles and they haven't elaborated on it yet. Believe me, I'm just as curious as you! I will be covering Boromir and Aragorn's meeting and what happens when Boromir finds out just who Aragorn is but you'll have to wait awhile for that! I've still got quite a few chapters to go before we make the ring quest!_

_Chibi Mo: We're back to Gondor again. Most of the story is set in Minas Tirith but there are sidetrips to other places. We will be in Rivendell again and the North and Ithilien and Mirkwood even and then they'll be a few stops on the ring quest....So, there will be a few changes of scenery but most of it will be set in Minas Tirith as the main character is there most of the time!_

_Arahiril: Another long review. Yipee! It lasted...two and a bit years. Whenever I try to write him Denethor's thoughts circle back to his sons and then extend to the rest of Gondor which is another child to him in a way. Part of the problem is that Gondor is a rather needy child! I'm glad you liked his reaction, I was worried about that! An argument is coming up in the next two chapters, don't worry! _

_Happy face: I'm going, I'm going. This chapter was a weird and hard and unpleasing one to write. Chapters will come slowly as I am writing other stories at the same time and will be starting school again on the 7th. That takes up a lot of my time, unfortunately!_

_Levaire: The palantir could be used again because wooden boxes splinter under axes!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Author's Notes: Now beta'ed! YAY!! This is a chapter I'd throughly enjoy feedback on so...Please?**

**I use snow in Rivendell in this chapter which is me nudging canon a bit. I should mention that not all of Rivendell is covered in snow, some parts aren't. It's my understanding that Rivendell is climate controlled to a certain extent, like Lorien, so it could, hypothetically, snow or become cold if Elrond wanted it to. Is this a misuse of power or something that will alert the enemy to the whereabouts of Vilya? I don't think so, not if Rivendell was kept climate controlled otherwise. Wouldn't it be more an alert that the climate didn't change?**

**Also, Elrond took over this chapter. I don't know why or how but he did. So you get to see some of his history as I saw it. I can't claim to being an expert on Elrond so there could very well be mistakes. I checked but I could have missed things and there are aspects of his past upon to interpretation. Anyone want to debate it drop me an email, I love to discuss this stuff!**

**Chapter 8**

Aragorn frowned stepping into the quiet chaos of his Adar's study. The Elf Lord was not where his son expected him to be, where he always was at this time of day.

"Ada?" He called softly.

"On the balcony, Estel," the voice came, soft, weary but Aragorn never doubted the power there.

Aragorn shivered, stepping through the doors that had been left just slightly ajar. It was winter in Rivendell and it was colder than normal. A light dusting of snow had began to grace the valley. The Elves seemed to enjoy it. It made Aragorn's arm ache.

Elrond looked up at his foster son and gave him a smile tinged with sadness. "There is a cloak by the door."

Aragorn disappeared momentarily, gathering the soft warm folds about him before rejoining his adar. Despite the cloak he felt the chill of the stone bench immediately when he sat. He shivered once. "Ada?"

Elrond smiled, still sad and vague. He said nothing, but his smooth fingers moved to touch his son's hair at the back of his neck in an absent fashion.

Aragorn waited with a patience that most did not have. Most, of course, had not been tutored by the Eldar all their lives. The chill in the air had a sharper bite than was normal, though Aragorn knew he was likely the only resident who felt it. Elrond wore the same robes he would have had it been the peak of summer and even the tips of his fingers remained warm.

After a time the cold began to seep back into Aragorn's body, despite the cloak. His teeth chattered momentarily before he forced the reaction under tight control. Elrond blinked, his eyes focused, and he frowned, looking at his foster son.

"You are shivering," Elrond noted and his hand traveled to Aragorn's shoulders. "The cold is not good for that arm. Inside with you immediately."

As his adar was standing to join him and ushering him quickly inside and into a chair by the faltering fire before shutting the doors tight behind him Aragorn did not protest. Elrond did not feel the cold, no Elf did, but it continued to unnerve Aragorn to see him sitting there without so much as a shiver in considerably cooler clothes than Aragorn himself wore.

Elrond poked the fire into life and crouched in front of his foster son, examining the bound arm. He raised an eyebrow at Aragorn.

"It aches a bit," Aragorn admitted. His arm was broken. A clean break and it would heal, but it ached, especially in the cold, and it meant he was in Rivendell for the winter at least, maybe longer because he doubted greatly his father would let any patient, let alone his son, go off into the wild with a broken arm.

"You will be the cause of my grey hairs," Elrond muttered.

Aragorn laughed, wincing as heat began to flood back into his body. "Elves do not get grey hairs."

"If there is a way for it to be done I have no doubt you will be the cause," Elrond replied, and a look stopped any thought of protest when a blanket was tucked about him. "Are your brothers not about for you to pester?"

"No, they left before I woke this morning," Aragorn replied, untucking the blanket a little as Elrond put a kettle over the fire. He kept one in the study, it was easier than summoning a servant or going to the kitchen every time he wanted a cup of tea. "I believe they are getting rather sick of me."

Elrond snorted elegantly. Aragorn thought it was entirely unfair that Elves could snort elegantly. "You have been restless lately."

"That happens when I can do nothing," Aragorn replied.

Elrond smiled but it was a bit vacant again. He sunk into another chair and back into silence. Aragorn nearly recognized the look in his eyes, for Elrond had the gift of foresight, and yet... It was not that. The distance was there, yes, but there was none of the vacancy that suggested Elrond had dropped into a vision.

"Ada?" Aragorn asked, digging his good hand up from under the blanket. "Are you well, ada?"

Elrond's eyes focused. If Aragorn did not know better he would have thought his adar had fallen asleep but... no, that was not it either. Aragorn leaned forward. "What is wrong?"

"When I have deduced it I will inform you," Elrond replied quietly. The shrill whistle of the kettle registered to the Elf Lord and he busied himself pouring two cups of tea, setting one by his foster son and indicating that it would be consumed whether Aragorn wanted to or not.

"Just a feeling then?" Aragorn continued, picking up the cup and sniffing the liquid. His adar was not above drugging him when he needed the rest.

"Yes, a feeling," Elrond told him. "Something is going to occur... And there will be consequences. That is all I can tell."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and it was not so formidable as his adar's but it made Elrond chuckle to see it. "That is ridiculously vague, ada."

"I know," Elrond replied. "It troubles me. I do not know why only what it causes me to feel."

"Which is?" Aragorn encouraged.

"Sorrow, longing, vaguely, that it did not have to be so, for I feel, perhaps, it must be." Elrond shook his head and blinked at the frost that had crept over the windows. "I think perhaps the weather is following my mood."

Elrond did not stir, but Aragorn knew of the ring he guarded, the ring of his King, and was reminded, suddenly, of all that his adar had lost. He thought of the winter, bleak, cold, barren, and looked worriedly at his adar.

Elrond caught his gaze, tilted his hand and smiled just slightly. "Ion-nîn, no fretting, this is a place of peace, you may recall."

"Yes, ada," Aragorn replied with a hint of a smile. "It has not snowed in Rivendell for..."

"Not since you were a boy," Elrond replied and his lips curved further upwards. "That was done for you, did you know that? You always loved it so. I forgot, one year, and those who knew were on my door before the week was out, demanding to know why the leaves had not yet fallen. When you grew, I fell to forgetting about it."

"So why does it snow now?" Aragorn asked.

"Erestor has been bothering me about it," Elrond told him. "He seems to believe we have gone too many years without some kind of winter festival that involved actual snow. Perhaps I should find more work for him. This indicates to me he is becoming bored."

Aragorn chuckled and gazed at the frost patterns curling over the windows. Most of Rivendell was not covered in snow, only parts. It was something of a novelty for many and only repeated every so often. He tilted his head to the side and his voice quieted. "The snow reminds me of my mother."

Elrond reached and gathered his grown son into his arms. Aragorn did not protest, thought his Adar might need someone to hold for awhile.

* * *

"There you are!"

Faramir turned to see his brother's grinning face and forced himself to smile in return. He could not show weakness, he could not... "You have escaped the healer's clutches again!"

Boromir laughed, such a joyful sound that it buoyed Faramir's spirits to hear it. He came forward, still limping, and without further words enfolded his brother in a bone crushing embrace. It surprised Faramir but he returned the embrace with just as much vigor.

"I have missed your company, brother," Boromir murmured. "I thought I would see more of you while I was in the city but I have scarcely seen you at all."

"I apologize," Faramir said, blushing faintly. "I..."

"Father," Boromir said, his voice sharp, "has been taking up much of my time."

Faramir hung his head. They never spoke of this, not anymore. Boromir lifted his chin, frowning to see the grey eyes glistening.

"Brother-mine..."

Faramir was already wiping furiously at his eyes, muttering, "Sorry, sorry."

Boromir frowned and caught his hands. "Faramir, stop, stop."

Faramir did and looked miserably up at his older brother. Boromir was still frowning and suddenly reached out to touch his dark hair with gentle fingers. "We need to talk, brother-mine, but shall we sit down? This leg of mine..."

Faramir jerked and made as if to support his brother then paused. "I thought the healers said..."

Boromir laughed again. "I cannot trick you, can I? It works so well on f–most others."

Faramir's smile faltered but he masked it well enough. Boromir's hand landed lightly on his shoulder. "Come, let us find the bench among these wild flowers."

They found their way to the lonely stone bench amidst the untamed garden. Weeds ran rampant, their buds have long taken over the flowerbeds. There was, Boromir knew, once a pond near the bench but it to seemed to have succumbed to the vines and wild grasses.

"The master at arms tells me you have greatly improved with a sword," Boromir said. "And that you excel at archery to the point he thinks you should consider applying to be one of the Rangers of Ithilien."

"I am adequate," Faramir murmured, blushing faintly.

"It is high praise," Boromir corrected gently. "I am very proud of you, brother-mine, I know it is not something you enjoy greatly."

"Practice is not so bad," Faramir said. "I would prefer to spend my time otherwise but I do not mind weapons practice. I...."

Faramir ducked his head shyly. Boromir frowned at the gesture, reaching out to squeeze his brother's hand. "Tell me what troubles you, little brother."

Faramir sighed and looked at his brother with sad eyes. "It is only... Soon I will be leaving for officer training and then I shall be assigned and then..."

Faramir swallowed, looked away. "And then it will no longer be practice and I shall be a soldier and have to kill."

"Ah, brother..."

"I know I have to," Faramir interrupted with a dark glare. "But I do not want to. I will, I have no choice, but I do not have to enjoy it."

"I should hope not!" Boromir exclaimed. "Brother, so long as you do not question yourself thusly in battle, so long as thinking so does not endanger you there is no wrong in pondering such things. You sometimes think overmuch and you cannot afford to, not in this case. The best of us question when wiping the red blood of another man from our swords."

"You do?" Faramir asked in surprise. "You love being a soldier."

"I do. It is not so much a matter on my conscious we battle Orcs, those I have little pity for, but we do fight men, at times, whose blood is as red as your or mine. They I can feel pity for, when the battle is done, for they are soldiers as I am," Boromir told him. "But you, and you especially, must not dwell over much on it, not before or during battle. To show such hesitation on the battlefield is to lose your life and those of your fellows and that you must not do, Faramir."

Boromir looked at his little brother, who was the picture of misery, and pulled the lanky youth close. "You have a kind heart, brother-mine, a good heart and I would not change that for the world but I would not lose you either."

Faramir pressed his face against his brother's tunic and screwed up his courage. "What is it like?"

Boromir sighed and fiddled with his brother's dark hair. "It is not something that is spoken of so I can only speak for myself and I would not advise you to ask others but... I took my first life in battle and so my second I took quickly after and thought not of the man beneath my blade, only keeping myself from falling under his. It was... terrifying and nauseating and exhilarating."

Boromir's hands kept petting his little brother's hair. Faramir wasn't overly fond of the action, it made him feel childish, but Boromir gained comfort from it, he knew that, so he said nothing. "After the battle you have time to brood on it, you likely will too much, but nearly all do, at least at first. Then there are so many feelings I could barely process them."

"I was horrified. I retched after my first battle and could not dwell on it long for it made me tremble. I... There is no sense lying to you, there is a thrill to it, there is an enticing sense of power, knowing you have the power to take a life, be the victor." Boromir shuddered.

He felt Faramir's eyes upon him and wondered what his little brother saw, looking into his pale face, wondered what he thought of him. "The feeling of satisfaction... it sickens me further. It is a horrible, terrible feeling, worse than the initial sickness from that killing blow. It does... dull with time and becomes more, Valar forgive me, routine. You should never forget what you are doing, it should never stop repulsing you but if you are not desensitized to it after a time you will not be able to stand it."

Faramir was silent as his brother's voice trailed off. When he was finished, Faramir wasted no time in hugging his brother hard. Boromir stiffened but could not remain so in the face of his brother's compassion.

"Thank you for telling me," Faramir murmured.

Boromir's arms wound around him, his hand coming up to cradle his head. "Do not dwell on it overmuch, Faramir, do not. It is horrible but if you think to much on it you will surely go mad. You have years yet; there is no sense in wasting them."

Faramir squeezed his brother with all his strength before drawing back. Boromir put a gentle hand on his cheek, studying him carefully, memorizing the changes their time apart had wrought in the rapidly growing youth.

"I am a soldier, little brother, and I am proud to be. That, too, you must remember," Boromir told him.

Faramir sighed. "I know. The master at arms has talked with me before."

"He is a wise man, Faramir," Boromir told him. "You do well to listen to him."

"I know but..." Faramir hesitated. "It is different, coming from you."

"That I can understand," Boromir said, reaching down to push back Faramir's hair. This time Faramir batted his hand away. Boromir laughed and Faramir smiled. They leaned against each other, shoulder to shoulder. Boromir waited, letting a few comfortable, silent heartbeats pass between them. "And now, brother-mine, perhaps you could enlighten me as to what is wrong between you and father?"

Faramir stiffened but did not pull away and begin to pace, which Boromir took to be a good sign. He shrugged, misery back in his eyes. "I do not truly know. I do not know what I have done now to displease him only that I surely have for he cannot stand my presence."

"Yes, I have noticed that you can scarcely breathe without displeasing him in some way," Boromir frowned. "Which confuses me greatly. I hope you do not believe all of his criticisms for they are harsh and a fair few are unjust. You have done much he should be proud of; that I am proud of."

Faramir turned his head and stared at his brother. He had never heard Boromir say anything against his father before. Boromir chuckled at his expression and put and hand on his chin to close his gaping mouth. "I am not saying you should not listen to father but... know he, nor anyone, is not always right."

"It is hard to think otherwise, sometimes," Faramir admitted. "He will be so kind to me, like when you were so badly hurt, but then he will ignore me for weeks; I will not see him at all, not even at meals! Or he will see me and say cruel things and I will be able to do nothing right in his eyes!"

Faramir looked away, angry, frustrated. "I do not know what to do to please him anymore! I do not understand it! He never used to be like this."

Boromir said nothing but his hand stole around his brother's shoulders. Faramir turned and shoved his face against his brother's chest; he did not want his big brother to see that he could not hold back his tears and wept a little against his tunic. Boromir's arms closed around him, one across his back, pressing his brother's whip thin body close against him; the other strayed to his neck, rubbing gently to sooth.

He did not let go, even when Faramir's tears halted, for Boromir knew he had been crying, and he stopped shaking from anger and sorrow. He did not let go even when Faramir wriggled a bit, only shifted so they were both more comfortable. Faramir allowed it, resting his head against his brother's shoulder, face flushed red with embarrassment, sure he would see scorn in his brother's eyes as he so often saw in their father's.

He knew, though, that he would have to meet his eyes so he swallowed and did so. Boromir looked concerned, and possibly also a hint indulgent, but not scornful nor disappointed. Strong fingers wiped at the wetness on his cheek. "Feel better now?"

Faramir freed his hand and scrubbed at his face. "A little."

"Sometimes a good cry is needed," Boromir said sagely. "Only make sure it is done before the right person. You never need to fear weeping before me, nor shall I fear to do so before you, and I think you have been waiting to do that for a long time."

"You have been gone a long while," Faramir murmured. Boromir's hand stilled against his neck and Faramir jerked in alarm. "I did not mean... Brother, I did not mean it negatively..."

"I know," Boromir said, hand quickly resuming it's motions. Faramir pulled away and grabbed his brother's hands in his own, noticing the size difference between them had almost disappeared.

"I know why you have been away. I understand it, you must be away. Please do not think I... somehow resent you for your duty," Faramir told him. "I would wish it otherwise, but I would wish that we need not face this evil at all, not that you would not fight it to take care of me, leaving another to go in your place."

Boromir sighed, wanted to gather Faramir close but refrained. Faramir kept taking steps for equality between them and he was not about to crush any awkward steps on the troubled path from being a boy to being a man. Instead he gripped his hands firmly.

"You and I," Boromir told him, "must always rely on each other: we gain strength in this. Never think that I am not with you for I always am, no matter what distances lay between us."

Faramir swallowed and nodded. Boromir's smile was bittersweet. "I do not know how to explain our father's actions nor can I think of how to improve them. I suspect it shall make things worse to speak with him of it."

Faramir nodded. "I agree. I do not believe he would become angry with you but..."

"He would take it out on you. Yes, I have to agree, unfortunately, but I believe the diversion of anger may have something to do with my injuries. He is terrified of losing us, did you know that?" Boromir continued. "Though... I, too, have noticed that his praise of me grows with the years while his praise of you declines."

"Perhaps he wishes me to be more like you," Faramir suggested, frowning. He had considered such things before many times.

Boromir snorted. "That would cause no end of problems. I am certainly glad you are not so similar to me. We have enough arrogance in this family already. I suspect we would not love each other so if you were much more alike to me. Our strength is borne in the complimenting of our strengths and weaknesses."

Boromir grinned and pressed his forehead against Faramir's. "You and I together, little brother, are unstoppable."

Faramir could not help but smile in the face of his brother's enthusiasm. Boromir believed it, believed it with all his being, and Faramir found he did too. His grin grew and Boromir chuckled, giving him a tight squeeze.

"I may not be able to talk of his treatment of you outright to father but I can be subtle about it," Boromir told him. Faramir gave him a look and Boromir laughed. "Have faith in me brother! I can be subtle at times!"

Boromir gave him a glance that was half appraising. "It will soon be time for the company reviews and I know the Lieutenant coming from the rangers. Shall I ask him to give you some pointers? Perhaps spend some time with you to see if the company shall suit you? I think it shall."

Faramir thought a moment and nodded slowly. "Yes, I think I would enjoy that."

* * *

Elrond closed the window, his ink was slowly freezing as the fire had gone out, but he remained there, looking out at the still, frozen night. He rested his forehead upon the glass, fingers against the cold window.

There was a deep pang of grief and longing inside him and he missed his brother very strongly at that moment.

Elrond let his ageless fingers trail over the glass. He knew it cold but he did not feel it. For a moment he wished he could.

He drew his hand away and tucked it into the smooth folds of his robes. He could not feel cold but he knew it, remembered it.

His children, the twins and Estel, were in the Hall of Fire. Estel, he suspected, was seated close between the twins. They were very protective of their human brother. When Estel had first come home with his arm broken, first had it reset and properly tended to, Elladan had spent the night by his bed, keeping him from nightmares.

Elrond shivered. He remembered waking, dazed and trembling, in the home of those they could not help but love but were later often made to feel they should despise, and finding solace offered in the strong and ready arms of his brother, younger by a few moments. Then his foster ata would come and...

He missed him, them, wondered if they were to ever meet again, even passed the ending of the world.

Yes, he knew cold and would rather feel warmth. He set his pen aside and went to join his children.

* * *

"Faramir?" Boromir called into the quiet chambers. "Are you in here?"

"Here, Boromir," came the soft voice.

"Well, that was a thoroughly unpleasant meal," Boromir commented. "Father should indulge in the wine more, or perhaps that is his problem?"

"Nay, father rarely drinks," Faramir replied dully.

"I thought perhaps that wonderful bruise you are wearing would lighten the mood. Oh, there you are," Boromir held up the lantern and smiled at his brother who was leaning against the half collapsed desk. "Let me see it."

Faramir tilted his head back and Boromir swiped away a few strands of falling hair. He had a spectacular black eye that trailed halfway down his cheek. Boromir chuckled, shaking his head, "And to think you were the victor! Does it hurt still?"

"A little, not much," Faramir said, smiling faintly.

The master at arms had recruited a couple soldiers on leave from the garrison at Osgiliath to go against the cadets, with specific instructions to fight dirty. The men were broad set, save one wiry fellow who bested all who went against him, with at least five years service under their belts. Faramir had been the second to spar and the first of three cadets to come out the victor, all by a slight margin. The elbow that had caught Faramir's face had not phased him enough to lose the bout.

Boromir had thought their father would be impressed. He had not thought it would garner Faramir more criticism. It made little sense. Faramir had thrown himself into war sports out of duty and to please their father when being himself did not but it had not worked and Boromir could not blame his little brother for being moody about it.

Boromir sighed, said nothing but gazed around. He smiled in the dim light of his lantern and Faramir's candle. "You still come here."

Faramir looked at him and nodded, his arms folding around his knees, resting his head atop them. "When I wish to think or..."

He flushed and looked away embarrassed. Boromir smiled and touched his hair gently, smoothing it back. "Or?"

Faramir looked at him again, hesitantly. "Or when I wish to be close to you. Father shuts up your rooms when you are away and even if he did not I doubt he would permit me to enter them."

Boromir chuckled and pushed his forehead against his little brother's. "We must be sure not to be caught here either. He would think us ambitious or acting above our station or some such nonsense."

Faramir smiled. "Yes, what would the Steward think to know his sons used the King's office as their hideaway when they were children?"

Boromir snorted and looked about the shadowy room. It had long since fallen to disarray. Once it had been kept up but years and other concerns took Gondor and it was abandoned by all but the Steward's son if the dust was anything to judge by. Boromir doubted any others had ventured in during their lifetime; the remnants of their old forts and games were still scattered about.

"I wonder..." Boromir mused aloud, a memory coming to him.

He turned and with some effort opened a drawer of the desk. He laughed and reached in to pull out a drawstring bag full of wooden toy soldiers.

"If the King ever returns he shall get a study full of surprises," Boromir chuckled, tipping the soldiers out. He selected one on impulse, a banner carrier, tiny sword chipped as the end where it was not protected by the bulk of the carving. The banner remained intact. He passed it to Faramir.

"Here, keep it close and then you shall always be close to me," Boromir offered.

Faramir quirked an eyebrow at him. Or tried to. He had not quite mastered it. Boromir ruffled his hair and smiled at the scowl it earned him. "Indulge me brother! I know something of homesickness, even if it is for a person."

Faramir wrinkled his nose but nodded and held the small toy tightly. "Fine but you must take one from me as well."

"Which shall you choose?" Boromir asked, holding his hand out with a few.

Faramir considered them and finally his fingers lingered on one with no helmet and a tiny bow, carved down so the arrow did not point out. Boromir took it as his selection and dropped the others back into the bag, returning them to their drawer.

"Your future posting," Boromir murmured.

"Father will see me in the guard," Faramir told him quietly.

"By the time you enter into active service I shall be Captain General and I shall see you into where ever you fit best," Boromir said confidently. "And it will be my decision, as it will be for the other graduates from officer training. Mind, if you would best serve in the guard then that is where you shall go, but only if that truly suits you best."

"Has father told you he is announcing your appointment then?" Faramir asked.

Boromir nodded. "I start my duties next week but I will not be officially appointed until the new year."

He grimaced. "Father says I must take more of a liking to paper work between now and then."

Faramir laughed. Boromir dropped an arm around his shoulders, chuckling. "Laugh now, brother. When I am Steward you shall be my chief counsel and do all my paper work for me!"

Faramir smiled, shook his head and looked up at his brother with glad eyes. "And will we sneak off here to avoid all the courtesans?"

"No," Boromir said, hugging his brother tight, pressing their foreheads together. "This is where we will bring our children to tell them ghost stories!"

* * *

Elrond paused, watching the candle flicker. He rose slowly to close the window and paused to look out upon the snow.

He frowned and pressed two fingers to his temple, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. A steady beat thrummed at his temples. He knew what it heralded and felt this was a vision he did not want.

But he could push it away no longer, as he had been doing all day. He just... He felt a stirring of what the vision would be and did not wish to see it. Not now. The vague unease he had felt... he did not wish such pain to accompany it, as it always did with these visions of the past.

It would not be thwarted though and he made his way to a chair by the fire. He grasped the blanket that Estel had used earlier tightly about him, resting his elbow on the plush cushion of the arm rest and resting his head on his hand, his gaze not quite focused on the flames before him.

He shuddered and let the vision overtake him.

* * *

He raced through the forest until his lungs burned for air and his sore legs were trembling with strain, ready to give out on him. The whips of young branches against his face did not deter him, pulling his hair by their wooden hands. His world reduced to the sickening snap of a bone splintering and then the overwhelming need to escape as his throat closed with nausea and tears. He ran before any of the Elves could react.

But he could not run any longer because he could no longer breathe. A root came into his weaving path, tripping him. He fell, tumbling on the slow incline and came to an abrupt thudding halt, gasping at air that would not fill his lungs and suddenly aware of just how much he hurt. He could not think, lay conscious but insensible for long moments.

Then the sound of hooves and voices made their way into his hazy mind. A hand touched him, the garbled voices beginning to make sense and his eyes found a point of focus.

"Are you trying to run away?"

Maedhros stood over him and though he tried to keep his tone light, almost teasing, Elrond supposed, he heard the edge beneath it. They were not allowed to leave, they would be prevented from leaving, though Elrond did not know what that might entail. They were hostages. They were hostages not... not...

A spike of pain shot through him. He did not want to think about that. He knew it was true but it hurt so to think of it, that they were only hostages in the end and now...

He struggled to turn to his side, flailing so as to avoid Maedhros' boots as he retched. He lay shivering, only half hearing the noises about him, and then hands were lifting him. They placed him onto a horse, the buzzing of words floating around him, and he felt an arm wrap around him to steady him.

"Time for you to go home," Maedhros told him.

He was neither rough nor gentle but it meant something that he was carrying Elrond before him for it was not easy for him. Elrond remained nearly limp against him, no coherent words passing his lips only deep nearly inaudible whimpers.

Maedhros did not know what to make of it. He was no father. He assumed the child had not been trying to escape because his twin was not with him and the two were all but inseparable. Maglor, he knew, often found them curled up in one bed together and tried to discourage that by giving them separate rooms.

He frowned, his brother never forbid it though, because the twins still had nightmares from what they had seen of battle and slaughter. Being together seemed to ease such pain and terror for them and Maglor had it not in his heart to deny them that.

And Maglor was raising them, truly seemed to be, and so long as he did not let them go Maedhros cared not. He did not know what had happened to the Elfling whimpering against him, nor did he know how to deal with it. He would let his brother take care of it.

He was not sure what he had expected when he arrived at his brother's home. Not his songbird brother preparing to lead what appeared to be a search party, though he could not say he disapproved.

"Have you lost something, brother?" Maedhros asked, for Maglor was not facing him.

His brother turned but his face was indecipherable as he held out his hand for the child and Maedhros passed him down to him without comment. Elrond was trembling terribly and when Maglor's arms closed around him his fragile restraint gave way and he began sobbing near violently.

Maglor knelt so to hold him properly and did so tenderly. Maedhros frowned, dismounted, and gave quick orders for those gathered to depart to their duties. Maglor ignored all but the small body cradled against him, who he tried to soothe with soft song.

Elrond's hands curled tightly into the fabric of Maglor's tunic, his face pressed hard against his shoulder, unseen for the veil of dark hair covering it, dark hair that Maglor stroked with great gentleness. He was murmuring words, though they were mostly lost in his gasping sobs, but Maedhros' caught a few, "'M sorry...did not mean to...ata..." repeated over and over again.

Elrond's tears were exhausted quickly, he was too tired for so violent a reaction, and he crumbled further against his foster father and keeper. Jailer, Maedhros reminded himself. He doubted any but of this house remembered and even he found himself forgetting.

Maglor rose, the child still in his arms, and arched an eyebrow at his brother. He turned and took his charge inside. Maedhros sighed, shook his head, and followed.

Maglor sat Elrond upon a soft chair in a quiet room and bathed his face with cool water before tending to his cuts and scraps. Elrond was still sniffling but had calmed enough. Wide eyes raised hesitantly to looked at the one who had become his foster ata. "'M sorry, ata."

"I know," Maglor told him quietly, calmly, drawing the still trembling child close.

Elrond rested his head on the offered shoulder and curled his fingers in the soft hair. "I did not mean to run away. I was not running away from you."

"I know you were not," Maglor said again, finding his brother's eyes. Maedhros stood in the doorway, watching. "You know better. Do not worry of it now, it was a reaction, and we shall not speak of it until later. I would take you to see your brother now."

Elrond shivered and pushed his head further into the comfort of Maglor's presence. "I did not mean to. I did not!"

"I know, I know, hush, star child," Maglor soothed, ignoring his brother's deepening frown. "It was an accident. He is well. The arm will heal. He asked for you earlier. May I take you to him now?"

Elrond hesitated but Maglor felt the slow nod against his shoulder. Maglor picked him up again, glaring at his brother to remained silent. Maedhros dipped his head ever so slightly in agreement and moved aside to let him pass, following close behind.

Elrond's face had appeared by the time they reached his brother's room, with curtains drawn and darkened. Maglor held him awhile longer. Elros, under the influence of a strong draught they had used when resetting his arm, did not wake to his visitors.

"You must not jostle him overmuch," Maglor told Elrond quietly. Elrond nodded even as his eyes were fixed on his brother. "But he needs you with him."

Elrond held tighter to his foster ata for a moment, eyes on Elros' bound arm. He looked suddenly at Maglor. "I want to do that."

"Break your arm?" Maglor asked.

"No, I want to help," Elrond murmured. He let his head rest on Maglor's shoulder a moment. "I want to be able to heal."

Maedhros watched as his brother stood very still before saying quietly. "That is a noble thing. We shall see, but let those who are full healers attend your brother now. Do not try to yourself."

"Yes, ata," Elrond replied.

Maglor set him down, carefully, next to his brother on the bed. Elros stirred, woke a little and the twins curled up together without speech, adjusting because of Elros' arm. Maglor bent, kissed both dark brows, pausing to brush his fingers against Elrond's and offer a soft smile, before turning to his brother and indicating they would leave the room.

As the left Maedhros heard the injured child murmur, "No leaving me, El. You are not allowed to leave me."

The door closed, the twins were left together, Elros drifting and Elrond wide awake. He looked at his brother, whose eyes were closed as that was how he slept, and whispered, "No. I will not leave you 'Ros. You will leave me."

"Will not," Elros muttered sleepily. "And we have ata."

"Yes." Tears spilt unnoticed down Elrond's pale cheeks. "For now, we do."

On the other side of the closed door the two sons of Fëanor heard not the conversation of the sounds of Eärendil. They may have, had Maedhros not quickly said to his brother, "You love them."

Maglor did not reply to the statement, instead explaining. "They were playing, scuffling though good naturedly, and Elrond shoved his brother in jest, only he is stronger than he appears and Elros fell down the stairs. Elrond raced away before I could follow and, in truth, I was more worried about Elros. It was luck that he was not injured worse. A broken arm will mend easily enough."

"You love them, brother," Maedhros repeated, ignoring the other words. They did not concern him so much.

Maglor nodded once. "I do."

Maedhros shook his head. "And if we must use them as hostages?"

"I beg you do not ask that of me," Maglor said.

"If we do, brother?" Maedhros repeated.

Maglor looked down, his voice near silent. "Then we must but I beg you do not ask it of me for, yes, I do love them."

Maedhros smiled very slightly. "And they you, it seems."

Maglor looked up almost shyly but with pride. "They call me ata of their own will."

"Fatherhood looks well on you," Maedhros commented. He came forward and embraced his brother as tightly as he was able. "Only if we must, songbird, and only if there is no other path left. I will not take them from you, nor speak of this again."

"Thank you," Maglor replied, barely audible as he hugged his brother back.

Maedhros did not stay long and saw little of the twins, for Elrond did not leave Elros' side before he left, and Maglor was not allowing Elros to do much. He returned later, and they had grown some, and Elros' arm had taken no lasting damage nor were the twins never seen one without the other any longer, though they were still often found side by side.

He found Elrond one night outside, his head tilted to watch the stars, for which he was named, dark hair trailing long down his back. Elrond turned at his approach and did not react. Maedhros knew, though, that the half-Elven child saw him clearly and felt something akin to gladness to see he was not frightened.

Elrond rose as he grew closer and it became clear his intent was speech with the elder of the two twins his brother had taken as his own sons. Elrond gave a dip of his head in greeting, being respectful.

"I have found something that might interest you," Maedhros said without a formal greeting. He held out a slim book, which Elrond took with another slight bow. "It will aid you in your studies."

It was a book on herbs and herb lore, Elrond saw and he smiled at the tall Elf. "Thank you, uncle."

Maedhros was not sure what to think of that name. He would have to speak to his brother, but he nodded. "You still intend that path?"

"Yes, sir," Elrond told him. "I do."

Maedhros nodded, turned to go but turned back and regarded the son of those who had thwarted him from fulfilling his dreadful oath and casting off some of his burden. Elrond was older, but a child still and Maedrhos smiled slightly, but genuinely at him. "It is a noble thing, as my brother says."

He turned and disappeared. All faded into starlight.

A new flash rose up before him, trailing on the familiar vision. It was one he had not looked upon before and made him feel ill to see even as he rose out of the vision with a soft moan and a shiver.

A hand pressed against his forehead and he focused on a pair of concerned grey eyes. Elladan murmured, "Ada..."

A flask was pressed against his lips and he drank slowly until he could raise his shaking hand to support it. Glorfindel's concern mirrored Elrond's eldest son. He tipped a trickle more miruvor into his mouth and swallowed it before managing to force himself into full awareness.

Glorfindel frowned. "Elladan, go fetch a bottle of good strong wine and some food. I shall stay with your father."

It was an order, not a request and Elladan frowned but complied. Once he was gone Glorfindel pulled a chair closer to Elrond and took a slim motionless hand in his own. He asked quietly, "Was it Ereinion or was it them?"

There was a flash in Elrond's eyes. "They have names."

"And at times to hear them pains you still," Glorfindel said without anger. "An easy enough thing to understand. The parting was difficult."

"The relationship was difficult, though there was great love there." Elrond exhaled and squeezed the hand that held his tightly. "You know well my heart, mellon-nîn."

Glorfindel smiled sadly. Being confidante of the Lord of Imladris was a job he inherited from one he too had greatly loved. "Someone needs to take care of you, Elrond, for you so often find yourself far too busy taking care of others to do so. There are few visions that garner such a reaction from you. One is memories of your foster atar; the other is the memory of our King and the fire..."

Elrond shuddered, the simple words calling up another such vision that of his beloved King, his closest friend, being burned alive before his eyes, falling to his knees, desperate to heal the smoldering form even though he knew it was too late, that his hands would fail, that exhaustion would overcome him and bring about his own collapse. His own scream echoed in his ears from life ages past.

Both of Glorfindel's hands tightened around his wrists and his eyes cleared. Elrond trembled, swallowed and met his friend's worried eyes. Glorfindel's hands moved gently up his arms. It was unusual for two such visions to play before him so closely together.

"I have been in a fey mood all day, mellon," Elrond murmured.

"Why, mellon-nîn?" Glorfindel asked in concern. Imladris' lord could not be so susceptible to visions that left him shaky and heartsick.

"Something is to happen," Elrond said in a low voice. "Something that must be. Something that must happen for all to unfold as it should but it is not right!"

Glorfindel frowned. "What have you seen?"

"It is more of a feeling," Elrond answered. "But there was a flash, at the end of the vision, which is one I have had before, part memory, part... I see more than I did then. It was but a moment. A boy crying and red blood on a white quill, but the boy is familiar to me, I have seen him once before."

Elrond shook his head. "I know this must happen, that much depends on it, but I wish it were not so. It is not deserved. It is an evil thing that it must be so!"

"We live in evil times," Glorfindel said softly.

Elrond shivered and saw for a moment a flash of haunted eyes and felt a gentle hand, a hand calloused by a sword that had been stained by much blood, touch his cheek. His throat burned as it had then and he gave a soft gasp as he tried to draw in breath.

Glorfindel gripped his forearm and pressed the flask to his lips again. Elrond took several gulps of it this time. "Speak to me of other things. Speak to me of Ereinion and the good times we shared for my mind seems bent on the past this night. If such memories must take me let them be of our choosing."

Glorfindel did not question but began to speak of Lindon and its Lord, their high King. Elrond called to mind his booming laugh and his face made perfect in memory.

Glorfindel knew from experience the trick of such things was to wait them out. He had seen Elrond thus a time or two before though the trigger was less understandable this time.

Elrond sought his bed late. Visions pressed against his mind. They would not leave him. Glorfindel was concerned, though Elrond had tried to explain.

"The future is being shaped," Elrond had murmured as Glorfindel and his eldest son coaxed food and wine into him, which he did not refuse. "What shall happen makes much fall into place for the future. Time waits with impatience for a while longer. It brings the past very close"

Glorfindel had frowned. Elladan had moved close to his father and rested the Elf lord's weary head upon his shoulder. Eventually, when the touch of past and future and present refused to lift, waiting, as Elrond said, for something before it relented, they gave up trying to wait them out. Elrond needed rest, though sleep more than anything else brought on such visions.

And Elladan refused to leave his father's side, even when Elrond was curled in his vast bed, open eyes glazed with sleep. His father made no sound in sleep nor was there any flicker behind his eyes but Elladan knew he was dreaming and that he dreamt through as he walked the dream scape.

* * *

They festivities had ended. They were alone now and Elrond turned to his Lord and dipped his head slightly. "My King."

Gil-Galad chuckled, moved forward two strides and enfolded the younger, slighter Elf into a tight embrace. Being slighter than Gil-Galad was an easy feat, he was of a more solid girth than any other Elf Elrond had ever seen. "My friend, I have missed you."

"So have I, Ereinion," Elrond told him, hugging back. His hand remained on Gil-Galad's arm. "Come, I shall pour some wine and then I expect to hear all the news from Lindon. Your cook is the biggest gossip in all of Arda, that is why you still employee her. I wish to hear everything."

"You always did. I was never surprised you chose the immortal life of an eldar. It shall take that long for your curiosity to be fully sated," Gil-Galad said, excepting the offered glass of wine.

Elrond chuckled and poured his own. He glanced up to see Gil-Galad regarding him seriously over the rim of the wine glass. He arched an eyebrow at him.

Gil-Galad turned his gaze to his glass, twirling the deep red liquid slowly before his intense gaze returned to his friend. "We must talk now, mellon-nîn, of serious matters before we find merriment in our shared company."

Elrond sipped his wine slowly, his gaze never wavering from that of his King. "What must we discuss?"

"The future," Gil-Galad replied and was silent for a long time. He roused himself, saw Elrond still watching and smiled briefly. "I have recently come to a decision. You know I have no Heir and that I am unlikely to... remedy that situation."

Elrond tensed and Gil-Galad smiled softly. They had spoken of this before. Elrond had no desire for power and though he would do all for his King it was not something he wished to be named, though Gil-Galad had considered it for a time.

"No, Elrond. That is not something I will ever ask you," Gil-Galad said quietly. "Build this, your sanctuary for others, see it flourish as I knew it will. Heal, teach, learn as I know is your wish."

A hardly discernable blush stole high over Elrond's cheeks and he relaxed again. "You know I would do aught that you asked of me my King..."

Gil-Galad waved his hand. "I know, Elrond. It is not what I wish of you. I have ever wished to see you happy. I fear, though, that the task I will am going to ask of you will be no more to your liking."

"I fear what the future may bring for us, mellon-nîn, and it is time for me to pass something important on," Gil-Galad said, his eyes distant. "And I know that there are no safer hands in all of Arda."

Vilya, ring of Air, greatest of the Three, was revealed to him, offered up between Gil-Galad's fingers. Elrond took a step back, shaking his head in a desperate fashion. "No."

"Dear friend..." Gil-Galad began.

"No, do not ask this of me," Elrond said flatly. "Ereinion, you of all beings must know... This is not something I would accept. I shall carry no trinkets such as this."

Gil-Galad's face softened. "I know what you fear, Elrond, but I must pass this on and I will entrust it with no other."

"I do not fear but that I cannot bear the weight of such a thing," Elrond told him. "Please, Ereinion, do not ask me."

"I do ask you," Gil-Galad said sadly. He slipped the ring into his pocket and came to Elrond, framing his face with gentle hands. Elrond met his eyes without hesitation. "Speak to me."

"Trinkets, jewels, have had enough influence over my life," Elrond swallowed. "You of all remaining know the cost of carrying such things, of what the cost will be to me. My nana and adar were taken from me for the sake of a jewel. My nana abandoned me and Elros to the mercies of those who were kinslayers for the sake of a jewel which meant much, not unlike that ring you wish for me to carry. That they were kind to us was luck; that he came to love us and we him was a blessing but could easily not have been so. Do not ask me to carry such a weight."

"Elrond, your mother..."

"Nay, nay, I need not to hear it. I understand, now, but then I did not and the hurt of that child still lingers in my heart, I fear. For the sake of a Silmaril I was twice abandoned; both partings were painful and now you ask me to bear this ring? What shall I have of sacrifice to keep it safe and secret?" Elrond asked. "How shall it be different? Tell me, Ereinion! Tell me why I should bear this?"

"Because you, of all others, can. Who better knows the consequences of bearing such things? Who is better forewarned than you? For all the Silmarils touched your life did they ever once touch you? Did you ever desire them? Having seen them as a child and being raised in the house whose downfall they brought about? Elrond, you have such strength! Who else would I

entrust this task to?" Gil-Galad paused, came forward and took Elrond's hands in his own, finding his haunted eyes. "Dear friend, I ask you this not to hurt you, but because there is no other I so trust, no other I will give this task, save you. Please, Elrond son of Eärendil, son of Maglor, I ask you to guard this for me."

Elrond jerked, looked away, pulled away. He took a few steps, unsure where to go, turned to his bookcase. His hand lifted for a moment, fingers twitching, but the book he sought was not there, had been lost long ago. His hand fell limply to his side and he bowed his head.

Gil-Galad saw his lips move but heard not a word pass them. Elrond turned back to his King, posture heavy with all his age. "I will bear this burden for you."

Gil-Galad nodded once and came forward. He took Elrond's hand, turned the palm upward, and placed Vilya into his palm, curling his fingers around it. Elrond swallowed, his eyes closing as if he was in pain. His hand shook as he felt this new burden for the first time.

"It is yours now," Gil-Galad whispered.

He did not open his eyes as Gil-Galad opened his palm again and moved the ring. Elrond soon felt the brush of metal against his neck, felt his King fasten a long, thin mithril chain around his neck, the ring dangling from the end. "When you have become used to the power and can shield yourself from its darker edge wear it upon your finger. It will give you more control. Do not fear to use it to make Rivendell a true sanctuary when you feel you are able."

Elrond exhaled and opened his eyes, meeting those of his King as Gil-Galad fastened his robes again with nimble fingers. "This shall change me."

"All things do, be they good or ill," Gil-Galad murmured, smiling sadly. "The past can hurt, and for you it is most painful, but it is those events that shape who we are and so it must be, though it makes me heartsick to believe so."

Gil-Galad pressed a hand against Elrond's chest, where Vilya now lay beneath his clothing, heavy against his skin. "This will change you. I grieve for it but it must be so and I know you have the strength to become all the more noble with that change."

Gil-Galad let his hand drop. "If this... duty I ask of you causes your feelings for me to sour I will understand it."

Elrond's eyes flew open, he began to speak and thought better of it, instead throwing his arms around his King. Gil-Galad exhaled. He had feared that, feared asking Elrond for the cost of their friendship but knew, in the end, that he must even if that should be the cost.

"Fool," Elrond told him. "There is none dearer to me in this world. You shall ever have my love, my King."

"As you have mine," Gil-Galad told him. "Though my rank in your heart may change if the fair daughter of Galadriel has her way!"

Elrond laughed and the release of it forced tears to spill down his cheeks. Gil-Galad wiped them away with a tender hand. He pressed his forehead against Elrond's. "I think it is time we both indulged in a glass of strong spirits. This night was to be joyful."

**

* * *

Shallindra: The original idea of this story was to make Mandi feel something other than hate for Denethor. It's working but we've got a long way to go from here! I think there's more than just a confusion to relate going on between them, Denethor should really be able to relate more to his youngest son, but I don't think he's the madman the movies pegged him as.**

**shie1dmaidenofrohan: **Heeeeeeeere's Aragorn! I don't think Faramir was a wimp in the slightest. I think he's arguably one of the strongest characters there is IF you're dealing with book based canon. They made him wimpier in the movie. Part of Denethor's problems is not seeing beyong what he thinks of his own actions. But Boromir is going to confront him soon on that.

**shireling: **Some of the reasons why it was actually a good thing Denethor was trying to distance himself from Faramir will become aparrant soon and at what is really the wrong time for them too!

**lindahoyland: **Warning: Denethor is going to get worse before he gets better when it comes to Faramir. Don't look for him to be too nice in the next few chapters!

**whYFeL: **Their relationship has ups and downs, that's for sure, but I don't ever think it was all out hatred between them. I figure there HAS to be a reason Faramir never stops loving his father, not even as he rides out to what he thinks will be his death, really.

**Levaire: **An ax was actually a second idea of mine which I blame entirely on Gimli!

**Patty: **Thank you! Whenever Denethor decides he's going to be nice to Faramir in a chapter I do the turtle dance of joy so you aren't alone!

**Lariren-Shadow: **Glad you're liking this! In this cadets first trained in sword and then branched off into other things. Faramir has started using a bow now, and also several other things, but everyone learned the sword first because every soldier had one of those so that's what they started with. Aragorn just started him on the bow a little early. The palantir...it's not corrupting him against Faramir specifically as much as it's making him grouchy and tempermental and tired and paranoid. It's also giving him major migraines, which doesn't help his mood. He doesn't only lose his temper with Faramir but Faramir is around him most often because they're family and they live in close quarters so Faramir ends up bearing the brunt of it. Denethor does, MOST of the time, come through for Faramir when he really needs him, that might be changing a bit though...There's debate about the names, I just used that option for this story.

**SiberianRavyn: **I'm going! I'm going!


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: To anyone reading Reborn, it will be delayed a bit because some of the characters, no, not Fin and Alex, but other ones, are being stubborn and not communicating well. Within this week, I hope. As always, thanks to Mandi for putting up with me. muah

This chapter is part of an arc that changes everything. It's unpleasent and it was unpleasent to write but I had to write it. You've been warned. And I'd really, really like to hear what people think of this so, pleasepleasepleaseplease review!

Chapter 9

"You are early, Faramir," Angon, the master at arms commented, looking up from his task. He shot a disgusted look at the armor; it was nearly beyond use.

He frowned at his pupil, not his best, not at the sword, but damned if he did not give his all for it every moment he was on the field. The boy looked startled to hear him speak, the eyes that raised to meet his were slightly glassy, as if tinted by fever. He was pale and could not seem to quite focus properly.

Angon snorted; it was like Faramir to try and go on as if he were perfectly well when he was not but he thought they had overcome that particular stubbornness of his. The first time Faramir had come the training yards sick, and badly so, he had tried, vainly, to hide it. Angon had sat the boy down and had a talk with him about how life threatening it was to hide illness or injury when out on patrol or before battle. It would not just threaten his life, Angon had explained, but the lives of his fellows to hide such things from a superior officer.

Faramir had been sent back up to the Citadel, face burning red with embarrassment, and Angon thought a developing fever as well. To the master at arms' great displeasure he was back before the practice ended, flushed, weaving and looking miserable. His father had sent him back.

Angon put him in his work room, where he fixed the training weapons and armor, and told him to try and sleep. At the end of the lesson, he sent a message demanding the Steward's presence on the training grounds. He checked on Faramir as he waited for the Steward's arrival. The boy was sleeping fitfully on a pile of mats that needed to be stuffed again; a spattering of colour on his cheeks and sweat in his hair. He grimaced but he had suspected as much, it was the season for colds and fevers, most of the cadets would miss a day or two in the coming months. Faramir took sick rarer than most but when he did it hit him good.

It was his job to see the boy would not get himself killed when he was sent into battle; he did not need to train the boy out of any more fool habits than he already had! The master at arms was not planning take issue with the Steward in front of an audience but he would take issue with him for this. It was a lesser known fact of Gondorian law that the master at arms ranked above any man in the army and was on par with the Steward while on his training grounds. When it came to his cadets none could gainsay him and exceptions were rare.

So when the Steward arrived he got a similar talk to the one his son had endured, only more forceful because Angon thought the Steward should know better. He had served with Angon during his time in the army, before Angon had become master at arms and he had become Captain General. Denethor was more shamefaced than he had been in years when he left that meeting. Since then, Denethor had not meddled with his son's training, even if Angon knew he caught flak at home for not being the best at the sword in the class, and he had not turned up sick again.

Faramir wavered suddenly, weaving as if his feet were about to desert him. Angon swore and grasped him by the shoulders. He did not care a wit about how noble birthed the boy might be, if he was that ill he had no business being there, and he would bloody well carry him up to the House if need be.

Faramir started at the touch and made a low, ugly sound in the back of his throat. He blinked owlishly at the master at arms, as if coming out of a deep sleep and was suddenly trembling fiercely.

"Lad? Are you sick? You with me, cadet?" Angon thought to shake the boy once, firmly, to snap him out of it but thought better of it in the next moment. The shaking did not cease but Faramir's eyes almost managed to focus.

"No but I...I need to speak with my father," Faramir swallowed hard. "I must...I must, now!"

Angon pursed his lips and nodded sharply once. He was not sure what was wrong with the boy but somehow doubted he could deal well with it. "Go on then."

"I will try to come back before the lesson has ended," Faramir told him, holding himself stiffly.

"Good lad, go quickly now," Angon told him. He shook his head as Faramir, still white as marble and shaking, dashed off. He had not meant for him to run, not looking as if he were about to faint!

Angon sighed and shook his head. The boy would be back, if he said he would he would be. Angon had come to expect such things from the Steward's youngest son.

* * *

Denethor's vision was doubled for the pain in his head. He should have simply not risen that morning, stayed in bed and rested only...he had not touched his bed to stay in it. The past three days had been but a blur of his work in the day and his.. snooping at night, above the city.

He was loath to call is that. At first he had only used the palantír to observe Orcs and Easterlings on the borders of his land, which was not snooping as they had no business being in the land. Only recently, the past few days, had his gaze turned to others, rivals, allies, even kin! That was snooping, no matter how much he hated it.

He could not tell when it had begun, this urge to check on the other lords of Gondor. What were they doing? With whom? Denethor knew he had enemies, any with power did, and here was the tool observe them. Was it not his right as Steward to know what went on in his land? There were certain lords who sought to diminish his power and increase their own. This could not be tolerated. Denethor would have opposed it in a time of peace; it could absolutely not be allowed as they were gearing for war against their nameless, faceless foe.

So he watched, after dark, he would not let it interfere with his duties, he could not allow that. He watched who went to whom in the night, looked for out of place meetings, for suspicious behaviour, for any warning he might have. He had found little so far but he knew to be patient. Such things were not rooted out in a single night and how many were there that needed watching?

Last night he had spent much time observing his kinsman, the Prince of Dol Amroth. Denethor could not remember entirely why he had been suspicious of his late wife's brother then. Imrahil had never shown himself untrustworthy, if he had been foolish in his younger days. But he had great power, was a Prince, even, and great power tempted the bearer with the desire for more.

All he had gathered, though, was that Imrahil's youngest son was not an easy child to deal with when he did not want to go to bed yet. It had been a waste of time, which did not improve his mood. For all he knew he had missed something important watching Imrahil deal with putting a fussy toddler to sleep and looked about as haggard as he felt.

So lost in his thoughts and the pulse of pain in his head, Denethor did not hear the hurried footsteps nor the creak as his study door opened. Faramir did not pause to knock. He did not think of it, only getting to his father who could surely explain this. He had said to always come to him with this and Faramir was so disturbed by this new development he was shaking.

Denethor's head snapped up as the door snapped shut behind his youngest son. He glared at the boy who was supposed to be at sword practice, Denethor knew. He was not so remiss as to forget what class he thought his son most likely to play truant to, even if the assumption was incorrect. He obsessed on Faramir's attendance to his weapon's classes, which was perfect save for three days, two of which he had withdrawn Faramir from class for state functions.

The ache in his head increased as rage overtook him. It had been building all morning as paranoid thoughts invaded his tired mind and now that he found himself with a target something snapped. He rose, shaking with anger but Faramir, still distressed over what he had seen, did not notice.

"Father! Father, I..."

"BE SILENT!" Denethor roared, eye blazing with untold furies.

Faramir froze in place, eyes wide. He was sweating from the near run up to his father's study and still trembling because he could not stop, not until his father explained to him what he thought had happened, what he thought might, maybe, had been...

The slap sounded as a thunderclap in the quiet of the room. Faramir stumbled back in shock, tripped, and fell to the floor. He reached back to stop himself and his wrist twisted painfully beneath him. He gave a short gasping cry and spots danced before his eyes.

For long moments he could not react, could not think how to react. The pain from his wrist stole his breath away and his cheek burned. He did not think. He could not think. All he could do was lay there until the shock wore off.

He would have expected... He did not know what he would have expected. He had never thought, the situation he found himself in was not something he could fathom but the hand print he could feel on his cheek burned hotter because his father did not move to help him as he lay there shaking with pain and shock.

And when Faramir finally came back to himself enough to raise his head and look at his father Denethor was staring at him as if he had never seen him before.

A sob rose up in Faramir's throat and he viciously bit it back down. The air felt thick. He could not breathe. He could not think.

He did not remember pulling himself to his feet, arm clutched tight to his chest. He did not remember fleeing the room, nor if he encountered any as he skidded through the halls. He became aware only when he stumbled into the darkness of the never used study and nearly tripped again, this time over the cloak his brother had forgotten there last night.

He sank to the floor and pulled it about him, looking about wildly for a moment, sure he would hear quick angry footsteps coming after him at any moment.

The silence remained. He clutched the cloak closer with his good hand and gave in, sobbing harshly into the soft folds until his lungs ached and his head pounded and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

When Faramir did not return to sword practice Angon worried and worried further when he was absent for the rest of the afternoon. No word was sent, as he knew it should have been if Faramir had been unable to return as he said he would. Hurins were, in his experience, always good on their word. For Faramir to not return meant something had happened to him; the image of the boy collapsing in some alley on his way to the Citadel sent a shiver through his old bones, not only because it was the Steward's son missing but because he was genuinely fond of the cadet, as much as he could be knowing he was training the boy to be sent off to war.

He thought to send one of the cadets up to the Citadel when their lessons ended, thinking perhaps a messenger had not been sent because Denethor had deemed it unnecessary, if Faramir had been ill enough he may have forgotten to tell his father, after all. The booming laugh of the arm's rising star, home still recovering from his injuries and coming to the training grounds as he did daily to build up his strength again, presented him with a much better, and more discreet, option.

Angon had trained Boromir, he knew how close the brothers were simply from all the times Faramir had come to watch his brother train or stayed behind for wait for him after his own earlier lessons. Boromir's devotion was no less; Angon had often granted him use of the training grounds to teach his little brother when the cadets were done for the day.

Here, then, was the one person who could always find Faramir and he was soldier enough not to panic or make a fuss where one was most definitely not wanted. Angon, though, knew how worried he would be.

"You look as if another cadet has snapped five bows in one lesson again. None of your current students, I hope, can be as awful as I with a bow and arrow," Boromir joked, grinning broadly, as he spotted the master at arms and his long face.

Angon smiled thinly. "No, you, I fear, shall ever hold that record but I do have a student missing this day."

Angon saw Boromir's eyes cast about the departing cadets. It took him no time to label who was missing. His lips disappearing into a thin line.

"He was ill, I think, before class but it was a strange thing," Angon paused. "His eyes were distant and he seemed...removed, somehow. He said he had to speak with your father but that he would return before we put away swords for the day."

"I should go find him then, if only to ease your worries," Boromir said, trying to still the pounding of his heart. Faramir always kept his word, he would have returned even if he was sick, or had a message sent to the training grounds. "I shall see to it you are sent word once I have seen him."

Boromir went first to his father's study when he reached the Citadel. Denethor was there, pacing and muttering to himself. He looked frazzled, his robes were dusty and there was something about his eyes, something of fear, something of a lost quality that frightened Boromir. That his father was surprised to see him come striding through his study doors without knocking was saying something. Boromir never knocked, had not since he was a boy, yet his father always knew he was coming, could always tell by the tread of footsteps, he said, no matter how absorbed he was.

Yet this time he had not. Boromir shivered but did not pause.

"Did Faramir come to see you? Angon said he was ill and seemed worried. Is he alright?" Boromir asked, not bothering with a greeting, he felt such dread welling up inside him.

"I..." Denethor looked at his eldest with bewildered eyes; Boromir shivered again. "He came to see me, yes, and I... behaved badly I... frightened him and he...left quickly and now I cannot find him."

Denethor broke off and looked away from his son. He walked to the fireplace and stared vacantly into the flames. "I hurt him, I believe."

He turned back to his son but could not read Boromir's eyes. They were dark and he was pale; Boromir said nothing to him. Denethor lowered his head and looked away.

Boromir turned sharply and left. He had words for his father, oh he had words for him, but first he would find Faramir. Find him and tend to him, he only hoped whatever wounds his father's words had inflicted had not gone too deep.

He found Faramir in the first place he looked. It was too cold to hide long in their mother's ruined garden, especially without a blanket or a brother to huddle beneath it with, though he would not put it past Faramir to go and stay there. He hoped to find he had taken refuge elsewhere, a warmer place, as indeed he had, but finding him hurt more than Boromir had expected.

He felt heart sick looking at his little brother. Faramir looked like a child, curled up beneath his cloak, but as Boromir pushed the folds back so to better see his face he knew that childhood was but a dream now.

Faramir's face was pale and troubled even in sleep. Dried blood marred his face from where the force of their father's hand had made his nose bleed. Boromir reached out, stroking his hair tenderly and without speech. He felt tears threaten. He knew not how to deal with this.

"Faramir," he said quietly. He raised his fingers to stroke his cheek, biting his lip as he thought better of it and rubbed his shoulder instead. "It is time to wake, little brother. Wake, Faramir."

Faramir wrinkled his nose. He stirred, jarring his wrist as he did, the pain startling him. He lurched up, crying out and clutching his wrist tightly to him.

"Easy, easy," Boromir soothed. It took a moment for Faramir to recognize him; he slumped when he did. "Where does it hurt, brother mine?"

"My wrist," Faramir mumbled, looking dazed.

Boromir eased it away from Faramir's chest gently, making a low noise that was meant to be soothing when Faramir flinched and fidgeted, trying to distract himself from the pain. The wrist was darkening with bruises and even without prodding it Boromir could tell it was very tender. He winced in sympathy.

"Sprained, if not broken," Boromir said quietly. "A healer needs to see it."

"I cannot go to the Houses," Faramir said, that realization startled him, Boromir saw so in his eyes, bewildered eyes and nearly gave a start himself as he realized how like they looked to their father's. "Boromir, I cannot go to the Houses with this. I cannot."

"The healers take oaths that keep them from gossip," Boromir reminded him.

"But the other patients do not and who will stop their tongues. Someone might see me, I cannot..." Faramir looked away. "I cannot be seen. You know this as well as I."

That his brother should have to consider such a thing as he sat there, looking so lost and so... so still, so suddenly accepting, made Boromir wish to show the world what had been done, show the healers and their patients, the soldiers, the other Lords, their uncle, perhaps most he wanted that. Only how would that hurt Faramir? Too much, Boromir knew and... to be of the Steward's family meant certain things. His brother said right when he said such a thing needed to be hidden.

But hidden only for now. What became of this was not for their father to decide any longer, Boromir would see to that. No, this... this put him in the position of dictating their course, and he would be damned if he let his brother be hurt further.

"I will send for a healer," Boromir heard himself saying. "The Tower Guards will say nothing, they pass no tales of the Steward, ever."

How he hated himself for the words! It felt too much like a validation of what their father had done, keeping it secret like this, but what could he do? He could hardly challenge Denethor, he had no desire to oust his father from the Stewardship and bringing this to light would do so, darken the hearts of their people against him. He could not do that, not in these times, it risked too much. Despite all, Denethor was a good Steward, better than Boromir could hope to be at present with all his nineteen years. It could not come to that and so meant secrecy was required.

"Stay with me, in my rooms, until we have figured out what to do," Boromir said. Faramir looked up at him with too many questions in his eyes for his brother to answer. He cupped his little brother's bruised face instead, hands gentle. "I will not have you hurt again, brother-mine."

Faramir rested his head against him, his hand curling tightly in his brother's shirt. "I do not understand what I have done for him to... I do not know what to do now. I know he does not look at me as he looks at you, his eyes are not the same upon us, but he has never struck me before. Not like this and... Boromir, he looked as if he might have done more, had I not fallen and then fled."

He pushed his head against his brother, hiding his face. Boromir felt him tremble and felt warm tears against his neck.

"I will protect you, brother-mine, from everything, even him, if I have to, you know this. We will survive; we are Hurins, it is what we do."

"I do not wish to cry for him," Faramir muttered and Boromir looked down to see his face flushed and red. His teeth were gritted against the sobs that wanted to spill forth. "These foolish tears..."

"No tears of yours are foolish to me," Boromir told him, holding him for long moments when Faramir did not resist but instead shoved his face into Boromir's shoulder and he shook violently but he did not cry, he could not give that any longer. "I love you, my brother, and whatever else shall happen that will not change. It will never change; the moment the last breath leaves my body I will think of you and love you as it has been since the first breath was drawn by you."

Faramir shivered in his arms but Boromir only held him tighter a moment before drawing away, wiping the final tear tracks from his brother's face and getting him carefully to his feet. "Come, you need rest and healing. I will see you get it. And will you tell me what happened?"

"I do not know," Faramir murmured, looking at his brother as if searching for answers. "Truly, I do not know."

* * *

"...And he struck me. I do not understand why or what I have done," Faramir finished. "I can only think I displeased him because I did not knock or because I was not at weapons class but...He has never struck me before and I have done worse."

"As have I," Boromir agreed, frowning. "Why was it you left sword practice? Angon said you were ill."

Faramir sat up very straight suddenly, wincing as his bound wrist was pulled quickly from his brother's gentle grasp. "I never returned."

"I have sent a messenger. He was worried for you," Boromir told him, scowling as he took back his brother's wrist, examining the healer's work. It was not bad, it was very good, but Boromir was wary of all healers, especially of late since he had recently been in their clutches.

"I meant to go back," Faramir said.

"It is understandable why you did not," Boromir told him.

"Will it be? We cannot say... We have to think of something to say, some story. No one can know of this," Faramir reminded him.

Boromir pursed his lips. "We will think of something but I will... speak to father first. We will find a reason for you to have not returned. But why did you leave in the first place?"

Faramir swallowed. "I believe I had a vision."

"In the waking hours?" Faramir nodded and Boromir sighed. "We knew it was a possibility. Uncle has them when not in dreams. What was it you saw?"

"I..." Faramir shivered. "I saw, I think, your injury, how it happened."

He proceeded to describe Boromir's wounding in more detail than Boromir himself remembered, having been sorely hurt and then unconscious. He had been told, in full, what had happened and had kept the telling from his brother, who had, he learned, seen too much in the Houses as it was.

When Faramir had finished the tale he was trembling, pressing his wrist tight against his chest and Boromir was squeezing his other hand so hard it hurt. Faramir was biting his lip to keep tears from falling. "He promised me he would never be angry with me for a vision, no matter what I saw. He promised he would never turn me away."

"Oh Faramir," Boromir murmured. His grip on his brother's hand lightened to a caress. "He is a fool, a mean fool."

Faramir laughed painfully, startled by the comment. Boromir half-smiled. "You are still cold. You need to warm up. The King's study is drafty from disrepair and you stayed there long. Here."

He settled his warmest cloak about his brother like a blanket. The one Faramir had spent the afternoon huddled under he would give away or burn for it was now stained with the blood and misery of the dearest person to his heart.

Faramir made no protest as he settled into a chair before the fire. He was cold, too cold to even shiver, but it was a cold he thought might go too deep for fire to touch. Boromir's calloused hands touched his shoulder gently and he looked to his brother. His eyes were sad; Faramir wished it were not so. "I will go fetch us dinner. You will be fine for that time?"

Faramir smiled faintly and nodded. "Thank you, brother."

Boromir smiled just as slightly and bent down on impulse to kiss his brother's brow. "I will not be long."

Boromir just missed, as he made his way to the kitchens, crossing paths with his father, coming to his eldest son's rooms because no word of his youngest had yet been sent to him.

* * *

lindahoyland: I'm glad you liked it so much. Boromir did get very wise on me there and Elrond completely took control. You were right about something bad happening. I'd love to say the worst is over but…I will say nothing else physical will happen.

Shallindra: More Boromir, who rocks. Mandi very much dislikes Denethor after this chapter.

Aranna Undomiel: Glad you've liked it so far! I hope you keep reading it!

Redone: Glad you liked me playing with other characters so much! We're back to the boys of Gondor for a little bit. The dream meetings will be back, but not for a little bit.

Zammy: Thank you!

shie1dmaidenofrohan: Another update! Huzzah! We'll come back to Elrond, don't worry, I just wanted to deal with this story line before going back to that subplot. Mixing it up is too confusing. Boromir is very careful about how much he fusses over Faramir now that Faramir's older, mainly because otherwise Faramir yells at him and gets all pissy. He is a teenager after all.

elvingirl3737: Thank you! Hope you still like me after this portrayal of Denethor…there's more to this than has been said yet though, don't give up on me!

Jedi Buttercup: :Passes over a tissue: Elrond was making me cry. Elrond is one of the only characters who can do that. He's such a damn tragic character when you think about it. The past of ME effects it so much I don't see how you can't deal with it in stories, especially dealing with the brothers Gondor and Elrond's brood. It just makes up too much of who they are, you know?

I will get back to Elrond soon, promise, but mixing up the story lines was just too damn confusing. Can you guess the event, there's a succession of them but the biggest has already happened, that changed everything?

Faramir hasn't always been my favourite but he has always been top two with Eomer. I must say Eomer got a boast in the movies because Karl Urban is just…oh my. So is David Wenham even if he's not quite the Faramir I used to picture. Book Faramir is my favourite of the two Faramirs, and there really are two!, but David Wenham is always very nice to watch!


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Notes: Sorry it's taken so long to update this. School death. On another note I have been tempted into writing** RPS **fan fic involving everyone's favourite Daisy and Bean by the lovely, diabolical Sindahise who is twenty times the writer I am. If you'd like to see it drop me a line. _

_Also, WOW for the amount of reviews I got for the last chapter. This one is kind of a tie up. Another age jump is fast approaching. _

**Chapter 10**

Faramir had fallen into a light doze in the well padded chair before Boromir's warm fire. His wrist ached still; he had refused to drink the healer's draught until he had spoken with his brother as he knew he would sleep the night through once he took it. The flames and their warmth made him drowsy though, he was so wrung out emotionally he was near limp with exhaustion now that he let his guard down. Boromir could see him like this, no other.

He heard the doors open to this, the inner room of Boromir's apartment, but did not stir having finally found a comfortable enough way to sit. It minimized the dull constant throb that grated at him. He wondered, with a slight cringe, what Angon would say come the morn. He did not want to think about it, glad Boromir waited to speak, knowing his brother would not begrudge him the few moments of almost peace.

There were footstep, no speaking, and then silence, complete silence. Faramir's heart stilled a moment. Surely Boromir would be clattering about with plates and such; he could not help but do so, he was always loud and full of just... presence to him that was absent in the room.

But there was someone there. Faramir knew that even before he opened his eyes to see his father standing before him, his face as still as stone and illuminated by the flames. Faramir shivered, some elusive trace of pain skittered through his mind and disappeared before he could grasp it.

Denethor did not speak and his eyes looked as before, as if he did not recognize his own son. Faramir was afraid but did not think his father would raise his hand to him again. No, this was a different fear, one he was too tired and too muddled to place. He said nothing but felt himself sink back further against the pillows of the soft chair.

Denethor's face did not so much as twitch but suddenly Faramir saw his hand reach out to touch his face. He flinched as it brushed gently against his cheek, unable to stop the reaction he had not known would come.

Denethor snatched his hand back and a spasm passed over his face. Before Faramir could understand what was happening his father had turned and was hastening from the room.

"Father" Faramir called; dread seizing his heart and squeezing hard.

Denethor did not pause, did not acknowledge even hearing his son and Faramir could not bring himself to leave the chair fast enough he had begun to tremble so violently. A shade flitted over his mind but did not take hold and Faramir wondered for a moment what was the matter with him before lurching to his feet.

He did not cry though his eyes burned and the lump in his throat felt as large as a boulder. He was not sure if he intended to go after his father or... something but the room tilted when he was on his feet and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. He could barely stumble to his brother's bed and grab at the empty chamber pot before he was retching.

He heard new footsteps but could not move; he did not trust his stomach enough. Relief flooded him at the sound of his brother's worried voice. There was movement and Faramir would have grinned had he not been so busy casting up everything he ever ate; Boromir moved about so loudly, it was comforting.

A scrap of wet cloth was held against his forehead and Boromir's other arm slipped under him, helping to hold him up. By the time Faramir was through heaving Boromir had taken most of his weight.

"Faramir? I am sending for a healer" Boromir was muttering. Faramir realized he had been calling to him since he arrived; it had been lost in all the buzzing of his head.

"No, no, I am well" Faramir murmured. "No healers."

"Faramir..."

"No healers, Boromir, please, they cannot help." Faramir tilted his head back so it rested against Boromir's shoulder.

"What happened" Boromir questioned, deciding to press it, if he was going to, after he got answers. He could feel Faramir tense. "Tell me."

"Father came here." Faramir felt Boromir stiffen, felt rage rolling off his body. His hands were gently massaging Faramir's neck and the contrast felt strange. "He did not hurt me, Boromir. He was looking for you."

"What did he do" Boromir asked, his voice terribly controlled.

"He was shocked to see me, I think. He touched my face" again that simmering rage boiled "gently, brother. He was not seeking to hurt me. I... flinched. I could not help it. I did not know I would. Then he left. He said nothing to me."

The anger was still there but not so terrible. Faramir pressed on. "I do not know what happened to me exactly. It... It felt like a vision but it was not or unlike any I had ever had before. It..."

Faramir's eyes widened slightly. Boromir knew then his brother had figured it out for himself and went half mad for a few moments before he continued. "It was not mine. It was like a vision but it was not mine, so it was different."

"I did not know Estel had visions" Boromir said after a moment. He was not entirely sure what to think of all this. If it had not been Faramir... well, many things would have been different had it not been Faramir.

"It was not Estel. It was like him, somehow but not him. He feels different" Faramir told his brother.

Boromir was silent for a long moment. His hands stilled, hesitated, and then he hugged Faramir close. "This scares me, brother mine."

"I do not believe" Faramir began slowly. "I do not think it will happen again. I do not understand it or how I know but... it will not happen again or if it does it will not be like this."

"How can you be sure" Boromir questioned.

"I cannot be" Faramir told him"but I trust this... this feeling that it will not. Trust me."

Boromir snorted, loosened his hold and Faramir knew that he did. He was silent again, thinking. "Faramir? What happened when you had the vision today? Not in the vision but what happened to you"

Faramir frowned. "I do not know. I was entering the training grounds when it happened, there was a... a flash behind my eyes, it seemed, and then I saw it. It felt long but could only have been moments. Then I was in front of the weapons building."

There were something like ten steps from the entrance to the training grounds to the building where Angon kept the weapons. It was not a great loss of time but it was there. Boromir frowned. "Did you feel like you did tonight"

"No" Faramir told him. "No, it surprised me and frightened me but I did not feel sick or shaky from the vision. Seeing you get hurt... that was unpleasant."

When Boromir said nothing Faramir shifted so he could look at him. "What are you thinking, brother? Tell me"

Boromir shook his head as if to clear it and smiled faintly. "If the visions do not hamper you it is no matter."

Faramir frowned. He thought of how much he disliked the idea of taking life, of how often had wished he did not have to be a soldier, of his brother's wounding, of his father, of Gondor and at the last felt the deep steady pride he had always felt. "I will be a soldier, Boromir."

His brother nodded. "I know you will be but for now it has been too long a day. You need to eat something then rest. And you are drinking that vile thing the healers left you, no arguments."

* * *

Faramir slept. It had been a quick thing after Boromir had fed him the draught the healer had left. Boromir had scarcely gotten him into the large bed before his eyes drooped and shut.

Boromir stayed with him even after he slept, sitting beside him on the bed and studying his dreaming features. Boromir hoped he only dreamed and pleasant dreams at that. No visions tonight, he prayed.

He wondered at the changes he saw in his little brother. He had noticed them, of course, since he had been home and lucid but tonight... tonight was different. Faramir was at that age when boyhood clashed with the need to be grown up, the awkwardness of youth was to be expected but tonight Boromir had not seen that.

Despair and confusion, yes, but no more than Boromir would have expected of anyone in the circumstances. More alarming to him was the way Faramir thought ahead to cover for their father as even Boromir did not in his anger. Faramir should not have had to think that way. He was only a boy still, Boromir's little brother, none of this should have happened.

Boromir touched his hair gently. It was still soft, like a child's, and his cheeks had not yet the need for the touch of a razor in the morning, but what Boromir had seen in his eyes that night... No child dwelt here any longer. No, childhood was but a dream now.

Boromir had always known that Faramir would fight and bleed and maybe even die for Gondor, like he would. They had never belonged to themselves, not even in childhood, but to their people and their land, such was the lot of the ruling family. It was painful knowledge but one that filled Boromir up with a fierce pride.

He feared for his brother. As much as he thought of him, and he did, despite what his father thought and what Faramir thought of his own abilities, Boromir feared for him. One wrong step, too late a turn, still illness... these things could take down the best warrior. No matter how strong a man a carefully placed arrow could fell him.

And yet... And yet somehow, sometimes, when his mind chanced upon that awful thought something more than pain made him shield away from it. Something more... a... a feeling. Boromir's breath caught in his throat momentarily, a feeling, and he trusted those, he trusted this one certainly for the pure want of it to be true.

Faramir was made for times of peace and he would see them. He would see them; Boromir felt it to be true with all his heart. He knew not where this feeling came from, but it awed and comforted him. Faramir would live to see the end of the dark days, he was sure of it.

The fire popped suddenly and Boromir looked up startled. It had settled again and had not disturbed Faramir, but there was another figure standing in the door, face shadowed by the glow of the flames. Boromir's face darkened at the sight of his father.

Denethor said nothing, only stood there and looked at him, no, not him, at Faramir with unreadable eyes. Boromir was not sure his father registered he was in the room until he shifted and slipped off the bed.

Denethor did not move and if a flinch of something akin to longing passed over his face when Boromir stooped to press a kiss to his brother's brow it met his son's back and not his eyes. His eyes were blank when Boromir turned to him and in those eyes there was rage.

He walked passed his father with a curt nod toward the outer rooms. Denethor said nothing and followed. Boromir led them to his public study, far enough from his truly private rooms that Faramir would not wake even if they screamed at each other until dawn.

"You struck him" Boromir began in a low terrible voice. "You struck him"

Denethor flinched but said nothing. He would not meet Boromir's eyes which glittered with their own type of madness. Denethor recognized it even if his son did not. He had it often enough in his own eyes when one of his children was hurt.

"Give me a reason I should not tell our uncle of this, father. Give me some reason why I should not report this as I would any other common crime I observed. You struck your own son, father! Why" Boromir demanded. "What did he do that was so horrible for he did not understand it nor do I"

"I was... not myself, when Faramir came to me this morning" Denethor replied quietly. "I would never..." He sighed, and shook his head. "I have never wished to cause him pain."

"Whether you wished to or not you have done so" Boromir shook his head, his eyes flashing. "You have given me no reason and I doubt there is one other than your cruelty. I will not see this happen to him, I care not what position you hold, he is my brother and that means much to me even if you think nothing of his bond as your son. If you ever strike him thusly again I will not hesitate to strike back for him, for we both know he will not"

"If I ever strike him again, Boromir, I would have you seek retribution" Denethor told him quietly without looking at his son.

Boromir glared and continued to pace like a caged animal. He raised his hands to his head, gripping at his hair and said in a low, strange voice"Do you know why he was coming to you this morning, father? He never got the chance to speak to you, did he"

Denethor said nothing. For once he dared not seeing the glare in his son's eyes. If ever something could set Boromir against him it was this.

But Boromir's anger was losing it's intensity if none of its pain. His shoulders slumped and he looked at his father with a bleak expression. "He had a vision, of me injured, likely of the injury I just suffered and that was no pretty thing. He had it as he walked to weapons practice and it frightened him."

Denethor paled and sat abruptly in the nearest chair, staring at his eldest son. He had promised Faramir he need never fear coming to his father when a vision troubled him. "I did not know..."

"You gave him not the chance to tell you" Boromir said coldly.

"I did not mean..."

"You did, father" Boromir told him. "You struck your son. Was it the first time"

Denethor looked up sharply at that. "Do you dare..."

"You speak to me of daring? Of course I damn well dare! I was gone for months before I was injured and I have come back to find my family acting as if they were strangers to each other. Faramir fears you and you act as cold as marble to him and he knows not why" Boromir retorted. "I doubt, in fact, you have ever lifted a hand to him before but more from his shock that you have now than aught that you say! Still, a man may do damage without using blows."

Boromir paused, sighed"Faramir leaves to complete his training soon enough. It could have been delayed had he broken his wrist instead of sprained it this morning."

"What" Denethor demanded, looking up.

"If you had helped him when he fell this morning you would have known he was injured" Boromir said coldly, his grey eyes smoldering coals of reined in anger. He looked away from his father. "I want Faramir to go to Dol Amroth early."

"No" Denethor answered swiftly. "No."

"I was not making a suggestion, father" Boromir told him quietly. "Faramir thrives there, you know this. He would have been leaving in less than half a year as it stood before this morning. This will give him a change to be free, awhile, before his life becomes the army's and perhaps uncle can help him adjust to these waking visions."

"I was not aware" Denethor said bitingly"that he was your son."

"And uncle is not aware you hit him, shall I change that father" Boromir replied. "Push me on this and I will. Shall we see what happens then"

Denethor's face was grim. Imrahil would challenge him over this, he knew, and could very well make it public if he was mad enough and found the backing. There was more to this than Denethor striking Faramir, as bad as that was for his family to deal with. What would matter more was that he had not been in control; he had admitted he had not been himself. On that grounds Imrahil could challenge his authority and with Boromir initiating this...

"That would likely" Denethor said carefully"be best for Gondor."

Boromir laughed bitterly. "No, I doubt it would be but if something like this happens again, father? To Faramir or someone else? What if it is a page who annoys you? What then? Your temper lately... it changes you in ways I do not fully understand. I have seen it, this change in you, though I do not understand its source, not fully. It cannot be allowed to happen again we, both of us, know this."

Denethor did not agree, did not look at his son who spoke too close to what he already knew. Denethor was a proud man and prone to paranoia; if he did not know that Boromir truly would give all for Gondor, if he did not know that Boromir's reaction was amplified by the victim of his rage having been Faramir, thing may have been very different.

He did know that, though; he did not doubt Boromir's loyalty to Gondor and, truthfully, some whisper of him doubted himself though he ignored it, largely. He had only been forced to acknowledge it for a moment when his youngest son flinched away from him.

"Faramir goes to Dol Amroth" Denethor said in a toneless voice. "I shall write to your uncle and arrange it. It will take a few weeks to be done in the proper manner."

Boromir nodded"I wish to accompany him on the journey there. It should be before I am to be sent back to active duty."

Denethor nodded. "I will see if it can be arranged."

Boromir frowned. He did not want this; he wanted... not this! He sighed; there was nothing more for it. He left without another word and went back to his brother. Faramir slept still, and it appeared his dreams had not turned dark. Boromir hesitated, fearing he would wake his brother, then climbed into bed beside him. It had been too long a day for both of them. Boromir wished to sleep now; he would think about tomorrow when it came.

Denethor went silently to the tall tower he had spent so many past nights in after his son left him. He stood there a long while, staring at the seeing stone without looking into its depths and then looked away again, knowing even as he did that he would use it again. He was certain of it.

* * *

Aragorn sighed wearily and sat back into the plush chair. Glorfindel said nothing, but curled his fingers around a cup of tea and took a seat himself.

"You could not reach him" Glorfindel commented calmly.

"Not yet, no" Aragorn admitted, sipping the tea, glad for the warmth. "Perhaps if my brothers were here to work with we could draw him out of it. He will come back to us, in his own time."

"I think it may be better that way" Glorfindel said. "Did you get a glimpse of the vision"

Aragorn grimaced and licked his lips. "It was a battle; I did not recognize which only that it caused him much pain."

A grimace marred the timeless features for a moment. "I thought so, feared it."

"He never speaks of it" Aragorn murmured. "I know he will rejoin us but my heart worries."

Glorfindel smiled sadly. "As it well should. He will suffer for this, though he will not show it."

Aragorn inclined his head in acknowledgement and drank a large portion of his tea. Glorfindel was silent for long moments but moved his hand to take a sickly pale one in his own, holding it tenderly in both of his.

"I followed after him, up the mountain" Glorfindel said quietly, well aware this was a story Aragorn had never heard before. "He should never have done up there after Isildur. The fog nearly poisoned him; he was hardly breathing when I got to him. He was weak already for he had tried to heal our Ereinion."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Never have I seen such a thing, before or since. He admitted later that he knew not how he did it but somehow, in his desperation to save our King, he gained some of his injuries. There were burns on his hands and arms because the body was still smoldering but on his chest and back? Those came from his frantic attempts to heal him. I am only glad it did not start from the inside out else we would have lost him."

"He was broken on that field though none of us knew it... til much time had passed" Glorfindel continued. "He hides such things well."

Aragorn sighed, looking at his foster ada who lay on the bed looking too much like a corpse. The stubborn Elf lord had insisted on getting up after a night that did nothing to rest his weary mind. He had been in his study, with Glorfindel hovering nearby, when he had let out a soft moan, clutched at his head for a moment and collapsed.

He had not woken since the past and the future had rushed in on him through a tiny connection he had forgotten had been forged; not since the moment Faramir had flinched away from his father's touch and cemented the future.

The twins, Aragorn knew, would not be pleased to return home from their errand, they were escorting a group of Lorien elves from the borders, to find their father unconscious and as pale as the snow that still cloaked the grounds. He was not happy about it but when he touched Elrond's forehead he knew he was there, knew he was coming back to them, and quickly but some scars never healed and the shock of having them ripped open took time to recover from.

* * *

Dagnir Erynion: Thanks! Hope you liked this one too!

lindahoyland: I gotta tell you it gets worse before it gets...uh...yeah, it never does really get better, does it?

shie1dmaidenofrohan: Hee, yeah, updates happen sporadically while school is going on. Denethor is still remorseful but...it's not really enough, is it? Boromir's old enough, in his mind, he's not going to stand for it and after this...Faramir isn't going to oppose him. It just makes things...very difficult to overcome.

randomramblings: Thanks!

Rosie26: Glad you're liking it so much. I don't think Denethor was a cruel man just...all the circumstances stacked up against him and he did have certain character flaws that don't exactly work to his favour. There will be more Faramir and Aragorn scenes soon, I promise. Got stuck on Elrond for awhile there!

Rocks-my-socks: Thank you! Yeah, shocked me a little when my Denethor!muse told me that as well. Just...not a nice thing all around.

Aranna Undomiel: grins Updating as fast as I can with school and the like! Sorry it takes so long! Boromir is rather fantastic, isn't he? Faramir certainly won that life lottery...except that he does lose him in the end. I'm not toying that much with canon, sorry! Yeah, Faramir gets pulled along for his father's moods too often, doesn't he?

sidheranma: Hope you enjoyed what happed! It's funny, originally the moment of fate...thing was going to be when Denethor hit Faramir but it didn't quite work out that way...

elvingirl3737: More! I hope you like this as well. The brothers Mir (thanks Mandi!) are really just two cute, aren't they?

Jedi Buttercup: Feel free to ramble! I love hearing what other people think about my work! Denethor...makes a lot of sacrifices, for himself and others, as Steward. I don't think he even thinks about it that way but that's what he does. He really is, in the end, a very, very desperate man clinging to the edge with his finger nails as much as Gandalf was in Moria. He is a very Lear type character...only I never had much sympathy for Lear so...bad example!

I'm going to explore Faramir's waking visions a lot but, no to the first...he might have IF they had had a better connection but, especially now, there's so little true connection between them that it isn't something he picks up on. He does dream of other past things but none so clear as Numenor. That is the best picture of a historically relevant event that he sees but there are...flashes of other things in visions he has while sleeping, mostly. As for the ambushed? We'll see...grins

Nonce: Thanks! Really, anyone that noble has to be complex, I think. It's hard to be noble, I'd think. They are all very complex characters. It gives me a headache trying to get into their heads!

Susan W: Heh, I hope you do! Reviews really make my day and it's been a rather low month because of all the school work I've had to do. (11 assignments were due in 4 days, I was going nuts!) I loved both Faramir's but they really were two different people. As for DW...I just adore Daisy! So, how'd you like what Denethor did? What you were expecting?

espergirl04: Denethor...is a complicated man. I'm not sure he deserved to die they way he did but...he did some pretty cruel things in his life, didn't he?


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